


Face the Raven

by daymarket



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Brotherhood, Family, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jack the Ripper DLC, Post-Game(s), Rebuilding London, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Jack's slaughter, everything is in ruins. The London Brotherhood has been decimated, and the city is in chaos. Jacob is destroyed in more ways than one, and Evie fares little better.</p><p>Step by step, they claw their way back to sanity. That's the best they can do.</p><p>[Set post JTR]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally (and by that I mean about 10 minutes after the DLC came out) planned for this to go as the last chapter of _Strands_ , but my brain was all, naw, you want to write about these two NOW, damnit, not at some point five chapters down the road. And, yeah, I really really did. I will get back to _Strands_ eventually, I swear. 
> 
> Title taken from the Doctor Who episode.

Inspector Abberline makes the arrangements, and for that above all else, she will forever owe him. The journalists are drawn away just long enough for Evie to bundle Jacob into a carriage, and the good inspector promises a doctor back at her lodgings. The ride back to the city proper seems interminably long, with Jacob flickering in and out of consciousness with every bump in the road. She holds his hand, hating how cold it feels. She came as soon as she could, and it wasn't soon enough.

How long had Jacob been in the dark? Assuming he was free when the letter was sent, it would be a month for the journey from India, and then the past frantic week and more to unravel the puzzle. So that would be over forty days, give or take, trapped in the dark with nothing but a madman for company. He's so thin, she thinks despairingly. A shadow of his former self.

She traces his cheek with her free hand, and Jacob's good eye flutters briefly. “I'm sorry,” she whispers, and his head moves just the slightest fraction of an inch in reply. She holds him close, willing the warmth of her body to pass to him.

They stay that way until the carriage comes to a stop. Her lodgings are on the second floor, and as they make their way laboriously up the stairs, he clings to her as if with every scrap of his failing strength. She lowers him down onto the bed, and his hand clutches weakly at hers as she makes as if to let go. “I'm here,” she tells him. “Jacob. I'm here.”

A soft sigh comes out of his mouth, but he doesn't speak. Perhaps he can't. She looks up at the doctor at the other side of the bed. She doesn't recognize him, and now she must trust him with her brother's life, just as the Brotherhood's rests in the hands of Inspector Abberline. “Doctor,” she says carefully.

“Miss Frye,” he replies with a nod. “I'm Dr. Schultz. I've been given to understand that there are...circumstances at work here.”

Circumstances. What a word. “I would appreciate your discretion,” she says as calmly as she can. She looks at him carefully, studying him under eagle vision. He shines with the light of an ally, and she prays that it's not leading her false. Taking a deep breath, she says, “He's been held captive for a period of four, perhaps five weeks.” And the blood, she remembers. Jack must have wounded him, the worst of it concealed by his coat.

The doctor seems to recognize his cue and leans over, peeling away the coat. There's a dirty bandage under there, looking like it hasn't been changed in days. It swathes Jacob's left shoulder—his blade shoulder—and part of his neck. So Jack stabbed him, and then Jack bandaged him. Jack wouldn't have wanted Jacob to die, just to suffer.

She can't find herself to be grateful about that.

There are other wounds. Long, parallel cuts across Jacob's back and front, inflicted deliberately with a knife. Bruises in various stages of healing, mottled across his chest. His right ankle is broken, as are three ribs and two fingers on his right hand. She watches as the doctor does his work, making sure to keep her breathing slow and steady. The cuts are relatively easy to take care of. The bones, not so much. The doctor offers her a bottle of laudanum. “It's best if he stays out for this,” Dr. Schultz says, his voice grave. “The bones are partially healed. I'll have to re-break them and re-set. He'll be in agony if he's awake.”

It's a bald statement, and she appreciates his directness. Pain is part of an Assassin's life, and there's no use in dancing around it. She nods and turns to Jacob. He's still clinging onto her hand, but she's not sure if he's fully aware of the conversation. “Jacob,” she says softly, and his eye shifts slowly to focus on her. “Jacob. I need you to drink some of this.” She moves the bottle of laudanum into his field of vision. “The doctor needs to set your bones so you can heal. You don't want to be awake for that.”

His mouth moves, but no sounds come out. She waits for further response, and his hand tightens just slightly on hers. It's a grant of permission, she knows, and she tips the bottle to his mouth. “Not too much,” Dr. Schultz warns. “There. That's enough.”

Jacob's eyes flutter shut. She watches him as his breathing settles slowly into a deep, steady rhythm. “How long will he be asleep?” she asks.

“A day, perhaps,” Dr. Schultz says. “Enough time for the setting.” He looks up at her, eyebrows raised. “Miss Frye, you needn't be here. I have nurses that I can call upon.”

He's offering a way out, which is kind but so very naive. “No,” she says firmly. “I will stay. Tell me what to do.”

He looks at her, his gaze considering. She holds her chin high, meeting his look with a steady one of her own. She's looked death in the eye more than once, and she's spilled more than her fair share of blood. She can do this.

Whatever he sees in her eyes, it seems to satisfy him. He nods and looks back down at Jacob. “Very well,” he says. “Let's begin.”

* * *

It's dark outside. She doesn't know how late it is; only that exhaustion seeps into every bone and muscle of her being. Jacob is asleep still, and the good doctor has taken his leave. She wants to take a bath, to clean off the stench of Jack's dungeons. She wants to curl up by Jacob's side as if they were children again, dreaming of grand adventures. She wants the past month to have been nothing but a nightmare.

She leans back in the chair, her mind a dull haze. Food, she thinks. It's been almost a day since she's eaten, and Jacob will be hungry when he wakes up. Later, she must re-establish herself in the city, find old allies and make new ones. And Nellie, she remembers. She must see if Nellie's all right.

The first problem, at least, is easy to solve. There's a pub open on the corner not far from her lodgings. She's elected to stay in the City proper rather than Whitechapel, and the atmosphere, while not exactly festive, is at least not nearly as oppressive as the other district. The pub owner gives her a look when she enters, but that doesn't matter. Soup, bread, leftover roast from dinner. It will do.

Jacob's still asleep when she returns, but he's shifting restlessly in his slumber. She sets the mug of soup down on the bedside table and leans over him. There's a faint wrinkle in his brow, and she presses a hand gently to his forehead, willing it to smooth away. His skin is hot under her touch and slick with sweat. “Jacob,” she says, keeping her voice pitched low. “Shh. It's all right.”

His breathing, harsh and ragged, is her only response. She rises, heading into the bathroom and filling a bowl of water. Returning to his side, she dips a cloth into the cool water and lays it across his forehead. It's not enough, she knows. Dr. Schultz left her some tonic in case of a fever, and she picks up the bottle now. The syrup inside gives off a sickly sweet smell that's far too reminiscent of Starrick's vile concoction, and she nearly sets it aside.

No. She must trust Dr. Schultz. Jacob's life depends upon it.

A spoon. She pours out a small measure, considering it for a moment. Jacob is still asleep, but his hair is plastered with sweat and his cheeks are flushed. A small mercy, that he's not raving, but something tells her that it might only be a matter of time. She crouches by his bedside and curls a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing gently with her thumb. “Jacob,” she calls softly.

In the dark, she thinks that his eyes might open the slightest bit. Perhaps it's only a trick of the light, for he doesn't otherwise move. She slides an arm behind his head and raises it up to be at a slight angle, moving herself behind him to support him. The spoon goes between his lips, the tonic dripping slowly into his mouth. Jacob makes a horrible, gut-wrenching sound, and he twists in her arms as if to escape. “It's just tonic,” she tells him frantically as if it might make a difference. “Jacob. Swallow. Please, please, just _swallow.”_

He coughs, the movement wracking his entire body. His good eye is open now, but she doesn't know if he can see her in the dark, or if he's even awake at all. “Come on,” she whispers to him. “Just a little bit more. It'll make you feel better, I promise.”

Another cough, harsh and ragged. With his ribs broken as they are, it must be agony. His hand rises weakly, but he doesn't have the strength to push her away. She doubts that he's coordinated enough to do so even if he did. She holds him fast, watching with bated breath as his throat works convulsively, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. _Please_ , she thinks. She doesn't believe in a god, but she prays now, the words fervent in the dark. Please, if you're listening. Don't let me have made this worse. Bring him peace, bring him _sleep._

Does He answer? She doesn't know. Jacob's head shifts slightly in her arms. With a jarring suddenness, he falls limp in her arms, and for a horrible moment she's certain that he's dead. Her own heartbeat stops in her chest, and she freezes, unable to move or breathe or think. No. Nonononono—

Jacob's chest moves. A breath. Another.

Oh, _God._

She's shaking, she realizes dimly. Her hands are trembling from where they wrap around Jacob. The night stretches around her as she sits on the bed, paralyzed by the aftermath. The scraggly beard can't hide how hollow his cheeks are, and stripped bare as he is, she can clearly see just how much weight he's lost. She was almost too late, she realizes suddenly, and she can't breathe again. If she had dallied any longer in India or taken even a few days too long to piece the history together, he would have died, abandoned and forgotten in Jack's dungeon.

“Not on my watch,” she says fiercely. She's not sure if she's speaking to Jacob or to herself. “I won't let you die. Not here, not ever.”

His breathing is her only response, but it's enough. She holds him against the darkness of the night, loathe to let go. The steady beat of his heart tells her that he's still alive, and she'll take that gladly for all it's worth.

Another thing to do, she thinks as she drifts off to sleep. She must send a letter to Henry, let him know that she's alive and that she won't be coming home, not for a while. Not while Jacob still needs her.

* * *

She wakes. Some sudden instinct drives her into instant alertness, and she jerks upright, disoriented but ready to fight. There's sunlight filtering in through the ratty curtains. There's a covered mug of soup on the table. And there's Jacob—Jacob—

She's still curled around him. His head is tilted back towards her, and his one good eye is open. She stares at him, momentarily speechless. He blinks at her, his mouth curving in the faintest smile, and she breathes again. God. He's alive. Jacob, her Jacob, he's awake and he's alive and she will do anything in her power to keep it that way.

“Hello,” she says to him. Her cheeks are wet, but she doesn't care. He's focusing on her, and he's awake and trying to smile, and that's all that matters.

“'vie,” he says, his voice a bare thread, and she laughs in joy and relief. “'Lo.”

“Hello,” she says again, and she squeezes his hand. He squeezes back, and she laughs again. He's still too warm to the touch, but oh god, he's alive and he's awake and she's missed him so much, and she doesn't ever want to let him go. She's going to start shaking again, and if she does, she'll fly apart into a million pieces and never stop, and that won't help either of them.

_Control yourself, Evie._

She breathes deeply. Jacob's watching her, she knows, and that helps somewhat to push back her nerves. She smiles down at him and inhales again, letting the movement center her in the moment. With her right hand, she pushes her hair away from her face. Her left still lies wrapped on Jacob's chest, tracing his heartbeat. “How do you feel?” she says when she thinks she can speak again.

“Feel terr'ble,” he slurs.

“Yes, well, you got into an awful fight,” she says. It's a weak attempt at teasing, but at least she's making an effort. “Don't worry. I defended your honor.”

His throat moves as he swallows. She watches as his face twitches, and there's one question that hangs in the air above all else. “Jack is dead,” she tells him quietly, and she can feel the shiver run through him. “It's over.”

He's still for a moment, his eye fluttering shut. She waits, uncertain of what to say next. There are regrets, questions, a thousand and one pieces of the puzzle yet to solve. He's not ready for this, she knows suddenly. Perhaps it's the coward's way out, but in this moment, it's the truth. Neither of them are ready. “There will be plenty of time for all that later,” she says softly. “For now, I just want you to get better.”

She's not sure if it's the right thing to say. Jacob's eye does open, though, so it's done _something_ at least. For good or ill, she'll never know. She looks down at him, carding her fingers through his hair. It's matted with sweat and dirt and blood, but she doesn't care. “What do you need?” she asks as the silence stretches on.

“Dry,” he says hoarsely.

Dry. “Water?” she asks, and she's rewarded with a tiny nod. She looks around. There's the bowl of water from last night, but he'll need clean water to drink, and that's in the other room. “I'll be right back,” she promises as she untangles herself from him. He makes a small noise, and she hopes it's one of assent. She wouldn't be able to leave it if it weren't.

There's nothing to be done for the soup now, cold as it is, but there's plenty of water. She finds a clean glass and fills it, heading back into the room. Jacob's hand, the one without the broken fingers, is moving slowly on the mattress, tracing out an aimless pattern. “You should probably sit up for this,” she tells him. “I don't want you to choke.”

His eye rolls at her in a faint memory of his old confident self. I know that, he's saying, and she can almost hear the amused exasperation in his mental voice. They taught me _some_ things at Assassin school.

She smirks at him as best she can under the circumstances, and his lips twitch slightly in response. And then she's moving, sliding her arm behind his neck, carefully lifting him upwards to sit upright on his own. It's a slow and tortuous process, and she stops whenever his breath hitches in pain. It seems to take an eternity, but eventually he's resting against the stacked pillows, his head slumped forward. His weight is leaning heavily on his right shoulder, angled away from the one that Jack stabbed.

She taps his arm, getting his attention. He turns toward her, and she lifts the glass of water to his mouth. He takes slow, careful sips, not stopping until the glass is drained dry. “More?” she asks quietly, and he shakes his head. “All right. Food, then?”

“Rich,” he murmurs.

She translates that in her head. Food that's too rich, after being starved for so long, will be of more harm than good. Something light, then, she decides. Bread. Some plain biscuits. There's still half a loaf of bread from yesterday, and she fetches that, breaking a small piece off. He turns his head away, and she sighs. “Jacob.”

There's a hint of a plea in his eyes. She raises an eyebrow at him, and she feels rather than hears him huff a tiny sigh. But he leans forward, and she places the piece of bread in his mouth. He doesn't chew, just holding it in for a while. His jaw isn't broken, she knows that, but perhaps he's missing a few teeth. She'll have to ask Dr. Schultz. It takes a moment, but he eventually chews and swallows, his head falling back against the pillows. She waits.

His good eye opens. “More,” he says. “Pleas'.”

“How polite,” she teases him gently. He gives her a tiny smile, and she can see a shadow of the old Jacob in it. She breaks off another piece, and then another. Five bites later, he's done with the bread. There's a spoonful of tonic next, taken grudgingly, and she decides that that's enough for now. It's a start, and perhaps he'll be hungry later in the evening.

“Sleep now?” she asks him. His head jerks, and he gives her a faintly embarrassed look. His hand twitches, and she understands. Right. He needs to use the bathroom, which is an arduous task at this particular moment. The benefit of small lodgings is that the bathroom isn't far away, but at this point, it may as well be on the other side of London. “This is not going to be fun,” she warns him, and he sighs in acknowledgement. “Right. Here we go.”

It's slightly better than yesterday, but not by much. There's a cast around his right foot so she doesn't have to worry too much about that, but she's still doing most of the work as they stagger to the bathroom. She leans him carefully onto the toilet and then matter-of-factly pulls down his trousers for him. They're twins and they grew up together; there's nothing about each other that they haven't seen before, even it has been years. He does his business, and she pulls them back up. “Come on, then.”

The journey back to the bed seems longer than the journey from. Jacob's head slumps heavily against her shoulder, and he almost falls into the bed despite her best efforts to lower him slowly. She turns him face-up, and his jaw is tight in what she knows as pain. “Laudanum?” she asks, and he nods.

Just a few drops, she knows. Dr. Schultz had warned her about the dangers of dependence the night before, but with Jacob's breath coming in short, it will be a necessary evil today. She tips a tiny measure into the cap and feeds it to him. His eye closes as the laudanum takes hold, breath evening out in sleep.

She sighs and looks at the clock on the wall. She's not sure when she woke up, but she'll guess that it's only been an hour since, maybe even less. It's bright outside, the day just only having begun.

It feels like it's been years. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abberline's my favorite NPC from the game. Poor fellow is just doing his best and somehow, it's never enough.

“Inspector Abberline,” she says as she swings open the door. “It's good to see you.”

The man blinks at her. It's raining outside, and it shows: his hat is plastered to his head with water, and it makes him look more doleful than ever. “You may be the only person in London who would say that right now, Miss Frye,” he says. He sounds more wry than displeased though, and she takes that as a good sign. He steps into the room, and she closes the door behind him. “How has your brother been doing?”

She could answer that any number of ways, she suspects, but she settles for the simplest one. “Better,” she says. “Not that that's hard, considering where he started from. He spent most of the past few days sleeping, actually. I got him to eat a little, but mostly it's just been sleep.”

“That's good,” Abberline says, and it's heartwarming how he manages to sound sincere about it. He takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair, sending water drops sliding to the floor. “I've kept your name out of the presses,” he says. “You and Jacob both. The Ripper will remain a mystery in the public eye.”

“I'm grateful,” she says quietly. He's watching her, eyes grave, and she knows that isn't the end of it. His fingers tap on the brim of his hat, clearly debating something. “But?” she prompts.

“But,” Abberline says. “But.” He shakes his head. “I want to know. I think I've earned the right to know. Who the Ripper is, how he's connected to Jacob. Why he seemed to playing a game with you, like he was leaving messages specifically for you.” They're questions, but they're not spoken like them. Abberline's gaze is intent, and she does him the courtesy of matching it. She waits.

“You said he was an Assassin,” he says slowly, as if he's still piecing the train of thought together. “I'm going to trust that your Brotherhood does not condone butchering innocent women like pigs in a slaughterhouse, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt here. So. A former Assassin? What turned him against you? Or Jacob, should I say.”

Well. He's not the chief inspector of the London Met for nothing. She inclines her head in acknowledgement of a point scored. “Sit, please,” she tells him, gesturing to the only other chair in the room. “It's a long story.”

“I've cleared my schedule,” he tells her. The words could be a joke, the tone is not. “Start from the beginning.”

The beginning. She doesn't know exactly where the beginning is, not for this tale. The letter from India, summoning her back to London? Or even further, from when Jacob brought Jack into the Brotherhood? A young boy, traumatized from the death of his mother and locked in an asylum? She thinks for a moment, eventually settling on the asylum. Yes. Then Jacob, misguided, well-meaning Jacob, who saved a boy from a madhouse and taught him to how to kill.

She can't condemn Jack for being a killer. After all, she and Jacob both, they're killers, too. But she can and will condemn him for being a _murderer_.

Abberline listens to her tale without much comment. He interjects to ask a clarifying question here and there, but for the most part, he lets her tell the story. She's missing a lot of it, of course. She wasn't there to train Jack, nor was she there to see his spiral into madness. No, she was in India, dedicating herself to the Indian Brotherhood and leaving Jacob to hold down London by himself. So only Jacob can fill in the details, but Jacob's also barely able to stay conscious for more than an hour at a time.

She wants to know the other half of the story, too, but they'll just both have to wait.

Abberline is silent for a long, long moment when she finishes. He's staring off into the distance, his expression contemplative. She waits, her hands folded in her lap. The silence stretches on, broken only by the faint sounds of rain.

“Your brother was training Assassins,” he says at last, and Evie tilts her head in question. An interesting place to start the interrogation. “All the women who were murdered. They were Assassins.”

“I believe so,” she says. “I'm not certain about Mary Jane Kelly. But the others? Yes. They bore the Assassin rings, so they must have been initiated into the Brotherhood. Jacob would know more, obviously.”

Abberline leans forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Your brother,” he says, sounding exasperated. He groans, rubbing his face. “Right. Of course he would try to expand your secret order. Right under my nose, and I never knew.”

“It's a _secret_ order,” she says, not unreasonably she feels. Abberline gives a weary, cynical snort. “Inspector, this is hardly unusual. There have always been Assassins everywhere, working in the shadows,” she says. “We fight for what it means to be free.”

He looks at her sharply. “Freedom from law being one of them,” he says.

She hesitates, aware that she's treading onto delicate ground. “Unjust law, yes,” she says. “Tyrannical law.”

“Ha!” The sound is more of a cynical bark than a laugh, and it frightens her more than it should. “Right, of course. And you, you of the many secrets and the hidden blade— _you_ are so qualified to determine what is just and what is not,” he says. “A bunch of mad children with knives. My God. How has London not collapsed yet?”

She frowns. “We helped _prevent_ this city from collapse, twenty years ago,” she reminds him. “If you recall, Crawford Starrick was driving it into ruins. We helped liberate it, and we aided you as well.”

Abberline laughs, the sound harsh. “Yes. Yes, you did. Don't think I've forgotten that particular bargain with the devil.” He shakes his head. “I won't forget how you captured men that my constables couldn't even touch. I can never forget what happened with the Bank of England, or how your brother nearly tore the city to pieces in the process. And I will never, _never_ forget what Jack did, honed as he was by your hand.”

“ _My_ hand?”

“Your sacred Creed. What is it?” Abberline says, and there's anger in his face now. “Oh, you and your secrets, Miss Frye, but you hear things in the dark. 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted'? That's bloody perfect, isn't it, especially for the likes of Jack. If you are bound by no law, a madman's spree means nothing—”

Fury, hot and blinding. She slams her fist into the table, and the sound seems to echo throughout the room. Abberline doesn't flinch, but he stills, watching her with a sudden cautious intensity. One hand is angled back, and she knows that he's reaching for his gun. She doesn't look at him as she breathes in, cursing herself silently for her loss of control.

He's angry, and that's understandable. She owes him so much, and she must not forget that.

“Jack was a madman, a torturer,” she says finally, her voice quiet. “We do not support that. We have never supported that.” She takes a breath. “He is what the Brotherhood seeks to destroy. We fight for the people to make their own choices, to walk the streets without worry for their lives. We are killers, yes, but we kill so that people may be free.” She hesitates, and then adds, “ _L_ _avoriamo al buio per servire la luce._ We work in the dark _—”_

“—to serve the light,” Abberline completes. She looks at him, surprised. “I'm not stupid, Miss Frye.”

“No, Inspector, you are not,” she agrees quietly.

She feels like she's been fighting for days on end, and only the lack of blood on her hands proves that false. Adrenaline and exhaustion press onto her in equal measure, but she forces herself to stay upright. The inspector's eyes are fixed on hers, and she will not falter, not now. “So,” she says.

“I should throw you both in prison,” Abberline says, but it's not spoken like a threat. It's a weary contemplation of the world, a regret held close to the chest and only finally spoken.

“Can you say with certainty that we are to be condemned, Inspector?” she asks. “We have fought for this city, Jacob and I. We have done what we could in the name of what is right. Jacob trained Jack, but he did not breed his madness.”

“Merely gave him the tools to commit his murder spree,” Abberline says, but he doesn't sound angry, just exhausted.

“And do you not do the same, Inspector?” she says. He looks at her with a frown, and she says, “You train your men how to fight. You train them to kill and disable so that they can protect themselves and others, all in the service of London. I challenge you, though, to tell me that each one of your men is an exemplar of justice. Will you claim responsibility for them all?”

That gives him pause. He's quiet for a long moment, and then he laughs. It's rueful and resentful all at once, and somehow it frightens her more than any of Jack's murders. It's the sound of a man at war with himself, his sense of justice and honor being ripped to shreds. There's a bitter taste in her mouth.

She waits.

“Right,” Abberline says finally. “Of course. Who am I to judge.”

“Inspector—”

He shakes his head. “Don't,” he says. He looks much older than his forty-five years, and she knows what she's doing to him. And she doesn't regret it, can't regret it. “I don't think I shall ever understand what you think you stand for, Miss Frye,” he says finally. The moment draws out, long and excruciating. Then— “But I will keep your secret.”

Her breath hitches, and it takes her a moment before she can speak. “Thank you.”

“Don't,” he says. “Don't do that; don't thank me. Just...” he lifts a hand in a vague, almost helpless motion. “It's a debt. That's all it is.”

“We owe you. The Brotherhood will pay their debts.”

He laughs. “Right. Of course you will.” He exhales slowly. “You know, your father said that to me once,” he says, and she startles in surprise. “Ethan Frye, wasn't it? Didn't know what was going on, but it happened. I knocked a bloke out, saved him from...whatever job he was doing. And that was that. I only knew much later who he was and what he stood for.”

“I never knew that,” she says softly.

“Yes, well, welcome to my world,” Abberline says, and there's tired humor in the deprecation. “Seems like information is the scarcest commodity of them all. There's a lot of sleepless nights involved, I can tell you that.”

She swallows, her throat tight. “So what will you do now?”

He picks up his hat from the table. Evie watches silently as he stands up, walking to the door. He swings it open, lingering in the threshhold for a moment before turning to face her. “Go on with my life,” he says at last. “Try to keep this city safe. Try to keep the presses from panicking. Try not to get rotten fruit thrown at me when I'm wearing a good suit.” He sighs, the sound heavy and tired. “The job doesn't stop, Miss Frye.”

“I think I understand that,” she whispers.

“Yes,” he says. He's quiet for a moment. “And what will you do?”

She looks at the room where Jacob sleeps, and she shakes her head in a small, almost helpless motion. “Wait, I suppose,” she says. “Jacob will need time to recover. I may return to India, but...I don't know. He'll need me. And then...I just. I don't know.”

Abberline lifts his hand. His hat is still wet, but he puts it on his head anyway, seemingly uncaring. “Take care of him,” he advises. “He does need you.” He pauses, and then adds, “And much as it pains me to admit, the city needs you.”

 _You_. She doesn't know if that means her or the Brotherhood by that, and she's not certain enough to ask. Nevertheless, it's an acceptance, reluctant as it is. It might be the best she'll ever get, and it'll have to be enough.

Abberline gives her one last look, and then he's gone, closing the door behind him. She leans against it, sliding to the floor and breathing hard.

* * *

My dearest Henry,

I apologize for the lateness of my response. I arrived at London a week ago, and since then there has been a wild series of events that has thrown everything into disarray. Perhaps word has travelled to you about a killer named Jack the Ripper who has been terrorizing Whitechapel. I am pleased to report that he is no more, but the full story is not one that I would dare to put down on paper. Suffice to say, Jacob is in dire condition, having been held prisoner by the Ripper for over a month. I do not know the exact state of the English Brotherhood yet, but I suspect that it is in ruins, or at least our presence in London.

I write this letter now sitting across from Jacob. He's asleep still, as he has been for much of the last week or so. Jacob will survive this, I think, but I don't know in what condition. I am so worried for his mind, his body, his strength. At the same time, the Brotherhood must also be rebuilt. The city is in a state of turmoil, with increased crime everywhere. I will not have the Templars coming in to retake London, nor have the city in chaos the way it is now.

But there is not enough time to do both. Henry, I feel torn apart in two directions. The days are exhausting yet fruitless, and I feel like I am spinning in circles with no guide. Jacob will know more about the state of our allies in this city and beyond, but he is barely conscious and when he is, speaking is enough of an effort that I don't want to press him.

I wish I knew what to do.

At the very least, I do know that I must extend my stay for a while longer. Please pass on my apologies to the Indian Brotherhood, and to Jalal and Tasheem in particular. You can give them my notes if you like, and that will help them continue our research in my absence.

I miss you. Give Parvati a kiss for me.

Sincerely yours,

Evie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian translation courtesy of the nice Google overlords.
> 
> Also, the Ethan Frye bit is from AC:Underworld. Abberline did in fact knock out a fellow who was trying to kill Ethan, although I can't recall if Ethan ever actually did repay the debt. Poor Freddy just keeps stumbling over the Fryes, even when he'd really rather not...


	3. Chapter 3

These days, her one luxury is a mattress. She's not twenty anymore, able to curl on a chair and sleep for days on end, and everything is tiring enough without adding an aching back to the mix. So she has a mattress laid out on the floor next to Jacob's bed, and she sleeps on it in fitful bursts. It's not so much Jacob's nightmares that wake her up as it is his breathing, or rather the fear of lack thereof. She jerks awake again and again throughout the nights, checking to make sure that he's still alive.

“You're hovering,” Jacob murmurs sleepily as she bends over him for the second time that night. It's not quite dawn, but there's a bright moon out and the city sheds its own greyish pre-light in the early morning hours. She pauses, one hand held just above his temple for a moment before she settles it down to rest. His fever has gone down, and he's just warm to the touch now. Silently, she thanks Dr. Schultz yet again.

“Someone has to,” she says out loud. “How do you feel?”

He blinks at her for a moment. The swelling around his left eye has gone down enough for him to open it properly, although she's not sure if there's more permanent damage to his vision. “Good,” he says. His voice is rough.

She can't quite tell whether or not that's a lie, but it _is_ true that he's doing better, at least. His words are still a little slurred, but they're getting clearer each day. “Mmm,” she says noncommitally. She pulls her hand away and pulls up the chair, settling next to his bed. “That's good. We'll be moving back to Crawley as soon as you're well enough to move.”

She doesn't quite expect the strength of his reaction. With a grunt of effort, he tries to push himself up, and it's only pain that stops him. “What? Why?” he asks, slumping back against the bed. “Evie, we can't leave the city—”

She leans forward as he tries to sit up again. Grabbing his arm, she adds her strength to his, pulling him upward until he's resting against the pillows. He looks up at her, eyes frantic, and she frowns down at him in confusion. “Why wouldn't we leave?” she asks. “The Brotherhood is stationed there, with doctors that we can trust. Dr. Schultz is quite good, but I'd rather that we were surrounded by allies. Anyway, these are temporary lodgings, Jacob.”

“I've got lodgings,” he says.

“In the thick of Whitechapel and covered with your blood,” she reminds him. A spasm of memory crosses his face, and she sighs. “Jacob. We can't exactly buy back the old train hideout from Agnes, and I'm only renting this place on a week-by-week basis. Crawley is the best option.”

Jacob shakes his head and winces at the movement. “I've got proper lodgings here in London,” he says. “We were making down payments on a townhouse near the Thames. Almost finished, actually.”

“We?”

He freezes, eyes locked on a distant point. She watches him carefully, and it seems to be an age before he finally draws breath again. “The London Brotherhood,” he says, his voice breaking.

 _The London Brotherhood_.

Jacob's never been the most consistent of letter writers, but she remembers that phrase from his infrequent communications. It had always been written with pride, a title hard-earned through blood and sweat: not the British or even English Brotherhood, but a distinct branch in London, born and trained to protect the city. There were apprentices—four, five, more over the years?—and all with Jacob at the helm, training and guiding them the way that their father had done for them years ago. A legacy and place of his own, separate from the Assassins in Crawley.

And now it's gone. Years, if not decades, of effort destroyed by a single madman. She takes a breath, struck by the enormity of it all. “Jacob,” she says quietly. “I'm sorry.”

His throat moves as he swallows in a convulsive motion. “How many?” he asks, his voice small. She knows what he's asking, and she debates for a moment whether or not to tell him. He's not strong enough, part of her urges. Wait for it. Coat the truth, and he can find the details when he's better.

It's tempting, it truly is, but she can't. If he's strong enough to ask, he's strong enough to be told. They're Assassins, with life and death tied intimately together, and it will do neither of them good to hide from it. “Perhaps ten from his prison ship,” she says. “I don't know the exact numbers, so there may be more.” She hesitates only a moment longer, and then adds, “And five women in the streets.”

He's silent for a long moment. “Who was the last one?” he asks finally.

“Mary Jane Kelly,” she says, and he lets out something that might be a low sob. “An Assassin?” she asks.

“Training to be one,” he whispers. “What was she even doing here? I sent her to Crawley. She was supposed to be _safe_.”

The last word comes out as a half-moan. She reaches out, and he flinches away from her touch. She tries to pretend that it doesn't hurt. “I'm sorry,” she says helplessly. “It wasn't your fault, Jacob.”

She knows how useless her words are the moment she says them, and the despair in his eyes reflects that. “She was supposed to be safe,” he repeats, as if saying them can make them true. He raises his hands to scrub at his face, heedless of his broken fingers. In the half-light, she can see that his hands are trembling. “Oh, God.”

She sits on the bed, wrapping an arm around him. He allows the touch, but he stays hunched over, breathing hard into his hands. It must be painful, taking deep breaths as he is with his broken ribs. “Jacob,” she says softly.

He shakes his head, still not looking up. “What about the men?” he rasps. “Are they dead, too?”

That question gives her pause. He must feel her go still, and he twists to look at her. “Edward Milliken, Andrew Rochester, Arjun Singh,” he says, the names spilling out of him. “They should be in Crawley.” His eyes widen. “And Emmett. Is Emmett all right? He wasn't in London, was he? Evie, tell me he wasn't—”

She squeezes his shoulder. He falls silent, but his eyes are still fixed on her face. “I haven't heard that they were dead,” she says. She thinks back to the prisoners on the ship. She doesn't know the others, but surely she would have recognized her nephew. Unless he's among the dead, lost to the hangman's noose. Jacob's staring at her in desperation, though, and she must not make things worse. “Last I heard, wasn't Emmett in France?” she says carefully. “He would still be there, wouldn't he?”

She can hear a hitch in his breathing. “He isn't supposed to come back until June,” he says slowly.

She nods with a confidence that she doesn't feel. “So he must be there, then. I'll send a letter to the French Brotherhood first thing in the morning and ask.” Jacob's silent. “I'm sure he's fine.”

“How can you know that?” he whispers.

She takes a breath. For a moment, her mind is spinning, offering only useless condolences in reply. She doesn't know, not for certain. Emmett might be dead. He might be rotting in the Thames at this very moment. Her nephew, Jacob's son, might have been dismembered by Jack's hand just like Mary Jane Kelly, he might have died in agony and without hope—

She breathes out. “No,” she says. Jacob startles against her, and she rubs his shoulder gently, mindful of the still-healing wound. “If Jack had had Emmett, we would've known. He would've taunted us. You and me both. To have our own flesh and blood in danger? Jack would've played games with us, again and again.” She leans forward, resting her forehead against his, and his eyes close. “Emmett's not dead. I promise.”

He doesn't relax, not exactly, but she can hear his breathing grow just slightly steadier. She waits, letting him gather his thoughts. His jaw works convulsively, tight lines appearing on the side of his mouth. She smooths them away as best she can, giving them both time to think.

At length, his eyes open. She pulls away just slightly, giving him space. “All right,” he says hoarsely. “Have you heard from the others?”

“Edward, Andrew, and Arjun?” He nods. “No. But that problem at least is easier to solve. I can call the Brotherhood in Crawley and receive a response by this afternoon.”

“They're in Crawley. They have to be in Crawley,” Jacob says. His words are short and halting, and it seems as if all strength has drained away. “I sent them there when Jack—the Ripper—when he killed Annie. I didn't want to risk any more people than I absolutely had to.” His eyes are bright in the half-light. “Lizzie and Katey were supposed to draw him out so I could strike. I didn't mean for them to die.”

Oh, _Jacob_.

Her heart aches. All the prisoners on the ship, held by a madman's whim. All those young women, Assassins-in-training. The path of the Brotherhood is one that walks hand-in-hand with death, but not this way. Not like this.

“You did the best you could, given the circumstances,” she says. The words are true, she knows, but that doesn't make the reality any less painful. “And we will do the best we can now, given where we are.”

Jacob doesn't reply as his head falls to rest against her shoulder. His breathing is harsh and deep again, but he's not crying. Tears are cathartic, she knows, and she wishes that he were. Even in here with only her to witness, he holds back, and she hates that. Hasn't he been alone long enough?

“Jacob,” she says. He doesn't look up. “Jacob. Listen to me.” She takes a breath, fumbling for the right words. “This isn't your burden to bear. When those women, when _we_ became Assassins, we understood what might happen, what would happen. We might die today, tomorrow, anytime. Each one of us must individually accept those risks in pursuit of what we think is right.”

He doesn't move, and Evie bites her lip. She's not doing this right, she thinks in despair. In Jacob's mind, every word only presses it deeper that it was his call to send those women to die, and his training that gave Jack the tools to become who he was. What words _can_ she say?

Her mind is blank, her voice trapped in her throat. She holds him close, rocking him wordlessly until he falls asleep, curled in her lap like a lost child.

* * *

Evie used to know each and every Assassin in Britain, but that was before she spent the better part of two decades in India. A woman she doesn't recognize answers her phone call to Crawley, and it takes almost ten minutes before she's put in contact with one of Jacob's lost Assassins. “Yes, ma'am, the three of us are here,” Andrew Rochester says, and she's filled with relief that this, at least, has not been taken away from Jacob. “How is Mr. Frye? We've heard all sorts of things here in Crawley.”

“He's alive,” she says. “Doing better than expected.” A little white lie; perhaps even not, depending on where the expectations are set. “Listen, Mr. Rochester. I don't know if you have, but have you heard from Emmett? Emmett Frye? Or do you know if the Council in Crawley has received news?”

“Emmett? He's in France, isn't he?” Andrew says. “Although if the Council has received news, I'm not privy to that, I'm afraid.” There's a brief hesitation, then, “Can we come back to London now? We told Mr. Frye that we could help. We _can_ help.” Another pause, then in a harsher voice: “Jack deserves to die for what he did to the women.”

Of course. They would have known the women personally: Annie, Catherine, Elizabeth, Mary Jane and Mary Ann. Just like they would have known Jack, perhaps even trained with him just like Jacob. “The Ripper is dead, Mr. Rochester,” she says, and she can hear a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the call. “His death has been kept out of the papers, but he is finished.”

“Good,” Andrew says, and she isn't surprised at the vehemence in his voice. “I saw what that monster did to Annie. I would've gone after him myself if Mr. Frye hadn't forbidden it.”

“And I'm glad you listened,” she says somberly. “There are five Assassins dead already, and I've no desire to have the list be eight.”

Andrew's silent for a moment. “All right,” he says, sounding decisive. “We'll take the first train tomorrow back to London, then. We've been getting reports of what's happening in Whitechapel, and there's no good in us staying here any longer. The next payment on the townhouse is almost due, anyway, and Edward's been wanting to speak with our solicitor.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but she stops, thinking. She cannot rebuild this city alone, she knows that. These men, Jacob's apprentices: they will know London better than she does at this point, and they are trained in the ways of the Brotherhood. Jacob will—well, she doesn't know if he'll be pleased or not, but he may not have a choice.

“Right,” she says. “Head back to the townhouse, and I'll reconvene with you there tomorrow morning. I don't know if Jacob is well enough to make it, but we'll see.” She thinks for a moment, then says, “Also, do you know a woman named Nellie?”

“Nellie! Is she all right?” Andrew asks, and so, the answer is yes.

“She's all right, but she's shaken. Does she know where the townhouse is? Lady Owers is dead, but it may be best if she has a place to hide in case of repercussions.”

“Oh, yes, that's a good idea. Nellie will be safe there,” Andrew says. “And about Lady Owers—I was wondering about that, actually. That was you, ma'am?” He doesn't wait for a reply, which is just as well. “We saw it in the papers here. She was a vile old bat, but she kept tight control over the brothels in Whitechapel. Who will step into her place now that she's gone?”

Evie rubs her forehead, suppressing a sigh. A vacuum of power spells trouble, she knows very well, and no doubt that there are already bargains being struck in dark rooms that bode ill for all. “No doubt we'll find out soon,” she says grimly.

Andrew seems to catch onto the dark tone of her mood. “Mary Ann knew the brothels the best,” he says quietly. But Mary Ann is dead, the words go unspoken. “We'll do our best, ma'am.”

“Of course,” she says. “I'll see you back here tomorrow, Mr. Rochester.”

They exchange a few more pleasantries, and then the call ends. Evie places the phone back into its cradle, thinking hard. She'll have to talk to Jacob, get the exact address of the townhouse. He might not want his students to see him in such a state, which is understandable, so she'll have to act as his proxy. Much as he needs to heal, London cannot wait forever. She'll just have to try to help both at the same time.

Our best, Andrew had said. They'll just have to hope that that's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacob's got a long road ahead of him. He's going to be in pieces for quite a while, and at some point we'll find out what happened to him in the dark. Probably not going to be pleasant for anyone involved.
> 
> Other notes: canonically, Jacob must have a child. Probably a son since Lydia's surname is Frye, but heck if I know what his first name is. Emmett is a guess based on the screen in the first modern day cutscene, where an "Emmett Frye" is listed. No doubt Ubisoft will joss this at some point, but until then I'm sticking to my guns.
> 
> Andrew Rochester and the other two aren't based in canon, just a speculation that there must've been male Assassins around _somewhere_. I intend to keep this fic focused as strongly on Jacob and Evie as possible, though. This story is about the Fryes first and foremost.


	4. Chapter 4

The townhouse is one of many in an otherwise nondescript block of apartments overlooking the Thames, and Evie checks twice to make sure that she's got the correct address. She switches to eagle vision to scan the indoors, and she's gratified to see that there are three figures lined in gold already indoors: two on the second floor, one on the first. She rings the doorbell, and all three stand up. Returning to normal vision, she waits.

The man who answers the door is a well-built white male with an Assassin gauntlet strapped to his left arm. He looks to be in early thirties, perhaps, which comes as a bit of a surprise. For some reason, she'd thought that Jacob's apprentices would be just out of adulthood, but in hindsight that thought's a bit silly—after all, it's been twenty years, and it stands to reason that they'd be grown men and full Assassins in their own right. “Hello, Dame Frye,” he says. “I'm Andrew Rochester. We spoke yesterday on the phone? Come in, please.”

She shakes his hand and steps into the foyer. “Yes, I recognize your voice. It's good to see you in person.” The other two men are approaching now, and she appraises them accordingly. “And your companions are…?”

One of the two is a bespectacled redhead who can't be more than a few years younger than her, going slightly bald at the temples. He looks more like accountant than Assassin, and in a strange way, rather reminds her of Henry. “I'm Edward Milliken, milady,” he says, and she inclines her head in rueful acknowledgment as she shakes his hand. “It's an honor to meet you. Mr. Frye has spoken highly of you.”

“Exaggerations, I'm sure,” she says politely. “And it's just Evie, please. Or Miss Frye if you insist.”

Edward and Andrew exchange a look, but she doesn't know them nearly well enough to decipher what it means. She turns her attention instead to the last member of their party: a slender Indian man who looks to be the youngest of the lot, no older than twenty if even that. “And you must be Mr. Arjun Singh, then. It's a pleasure.”

“Yes, miss,” Arjun says. He speaks with a London accent with only the faintest trace of India in his voice. Born in London, then, with immigrant parents. “We're happy to be back here in London.”

“And I'm happy that you're here,” she returns, and she means it.

They move from the foyer into a large sitting room, populated with a number of sofas arranged around a fireplace. She takes a moment to look around, part of her curious to see what sort of home Jacob would create. A comfortable and welcoming one, if the sitting room is any indication. She can very easily imagine a family being built here, of women and men learning to lead new lives in this home.

In the present, someone clears his throat. She shifts her attention back to Andrew, who's seated himself in the sofa across from her. “My apologies,” she says, and he nods. “So, the three of you: you've been entirely in Crawley the past month?”

“More,” Andrew says. “Sixty-two days. Not that we've been counting. The Council forbade us to leave before a report from London arrived, but it was getting increasingly harder to listen.”

She smiles, a little wistful. “Yes, I can understand that.” Jacob and I would never have come to London if we had listened, she thinks, but this isn't the time to recount personal history. “And you just arrived this morning?”

“About an hour ago.” Andrew hesitates, and she knows the question he's about to ask before it's spoken out loud. “Ma'am—how is Mr. Frye? We heard from Nellie that he was alive the night of Catherine and Elizabeth's murder, but other than that, nothing. We feared that he might be dead.” He pauses and clears his throat. “And so he's alive, but how is he?”

She looks at each of the men, taking in their expressions in turn. They're watching her with worry, confusion, and perhaps the slightest hint of suspicion. She can't fault them for any of that. Whatever stories Jacob may have told them, she doesn't actually know any of them, nor do they know her. She hesitates for a moment, wondering how much she should say. It's a fine line between respecting Jacob's dignity and shutting these men out entirely, and she's not sure how far she should tread on other side.

“Jacob was badly injured by Jack,” she says, and she can see the tension in their eyes. “I believe that shortly after Catherine and Elizabeth died, he was overpowered and held captive by Jack in Lambeth Asylum. I found him only a little more than a week ago, and he's been recuperating in my lodgings in the City since then.”

“Can we see him?” Arjun asks.

She shrugs. “I'll have to ask him that. He was asleep when I left. He's been asleep most of these days.”

“Since Lizzie and Katey died,” Edward says, sounding distant. She looks at him, and he says, “They died on the thirtieth of September. That's at least forty-five days alone with Jack.”

Evie takes a breath. “Yes,” she says simply, and she waits.

She's had time, scant as it is, to process some of what the captivity must have done to Jacob. She watches now as the realization plays across their faces, and for a moment the now-familiar helplessness threatens to overwhelm her. Jacob's crushed under the guilt of those he couldn't save, and these men, the ones that he _did—_ they can't fall apart. No one, not her, not Jacob, not London, can afford to lose more Assassins.

She closes her eyes briefly, centering herself in the moment. Calm, Evie.

Breathing out, she opens her eyes. “I'll speak to him later tonight and ask if he feels up to moving,” she says briskly. “In the meantime, Mr. Rochester. I've left a note directing Nellie to this address, and she will be arriving sometime later this afternoon when she's free. I expect that she might have more information about Lady Owers when she does.” She thinks for a moment, then continues. “Are the Rooks still under Assassin control? I ran into… trouble these past few days. Jack's doing, I suppose.”

“Yes and no. Jack didn't act alone,” Andrew says, his arms crossed. “It started even before Annie's murder, but the tension escalated very quickly right after that. I don't know what you and Mr. Frye conceived the Rooks to be, but it's splintered into a dozen factions over the past few years, only loosely related. Several men and women have taken control in various districts, and there are a few that have renounced our patronage altogether.”

Evie holds back a sigh. They'd been so eager to take back London from Starrick all those years ago, and she'd been so swept up in the challenge of retaking the boroughs from the Blighters that she hadn't considered the long-term consequences. She knows that the Rooks of today aren't the ones she left, but it still hurts to see them twisted into the very Blighters they were meant to replace. “There's nothing wrong with competition amidst the gangs,” she says out loud, “but there are crimes they encourage, particularly in Whitechapel, that must be stopped. Or else the gangs should be reduced altogether.”

“Ma'am,” Andrew says, and she looks at him. “I understand that you had borough and gang challenges when you retook London from the Blighters. That's the direct method, but there are other, subtler ways of exerting pressure. The gangs must eat and live like everyone else, and we have contacts that can pressure them financially. They'll need protection, of course, but that can be bought as well.”

His voice is calm and confident, more so than she feels at the moment. “Very well,” she says. “I would still like a list of the principal members, though, and a rough breakdown of each Rook faction. Try as we may to be subtle, sometimes a direct message must be sent.” And now she sounds like Jacob, she thinks ruefully. Or at least, a Jacob who hasn't been broken and ruined by Jack.

She shakes the thought away.

“I can have that for you later today,” Andrew promises, and she nods, deferring to his knowledge. She turns to Edward next. “Mr. Milliken. Jacob had mentioned something about the mortgage for this house. Do you know the details of the finances?”

She doesn't miss the brief glance Edward casts at Andrew, nor Andrew's nod in reply. “Yes, my—I mean, Miss Frye,” Edward says. “I keep the accounts for the Brotherhood here in London.”

“Good,” she says. “When Jacob and I first took over the city, we made a series of investments in businesses. Namely in terms of protection, but those terms may be lost along with the Rooks. I know that there was a set of vacant apartments in Lambeth as well as a number of other properties that we planned to buy, but I don't know if Jacob ever followed up on them.”

“Oh, you must mean the Lambeth Terrace,” Edward says. “Those still belong to the Brotherhood, yes. It gives us around three hundred pounds of disposable income each year. Altogether, we've had a slightly net positive cash flow these past few years, ma'am, between the shop, contracts, and property leases.” He clears his throat. “The situation is more complicated now, of course.”

He pulls his spectacles off his nose, cleaning them with the hem of his shirt. He bows his head, not looking at her, and she watches him in silence. Andrew intercedes, his voice low. “Catherine helped oversee our factory properties and manufacturers' contracts. They're still there in paper form, of course, but she knew the details and losing her is a financial blow,” he says. “Mary Nichols and Annie were our main contacts within the brothels and helped protect the night trade there. Elizabeth ran the house and shop front.” He pauses, his hands twisting in his lap. “And Mary Kelly was new. She joined us a year ago, when her husband left her. She was staying here, training here during the day and working part-time in the brothels at night.”

The names linger in the air. It's about far more than just contacts and influence that these women wielded; it's about their memory and presence, taken by Jack's blade. Evie looks around, and she sees dried flowers above the mantlepiece, a knitted throw on the floor in front of the fireplace. Women's touch, lost from hearth and home.

“I'm sorry,” she says. She's been saying that a lot lately, and it doesn't seem to help. Perhaps it's a waste of breath, but it's all she can say.

Andrew shrugs, looking bleak and tired. “As are we,” he says.

“It's strange being back here without Elizabeth,” Arjun says. He's been fairly quiet so far, and she looks at him now. God, he's young. Younger than her and Jacob when they first arrived in London all those years ago. “I keep expecting to turn the corner and see her.”

“She was the house mother,” Edward says quietly. The side of his mouth quirks in a wistful, fond memory. “And a bloody good shopkeeper to boot. You'd never seen anyone who could haggle a customer so well to the last shilling.”

“And clever!” Andrew laughs. “They'd try to pull all sorts of tricks from her, those blokes from the university, but she'd always set them straight. She knew the story behind each and every curio in that place. God, there was never an idle moment in Elizabeth's store.”

Evie smiles. “She sounds like a wonderful woman,” she says. “I'm glad Henry's store was left in such capable hands.”

Andrew nods. “Oh yes,” he says, and there's life in the air now, the stories spilling out one after another. Elizabeth and the warmth she brought to the home; Mary Nichols, somber and serious but with the shyest of smiles. Catherine, a formidable fighter who Edward swears up and down could hit a fly's wing with a knife. Annie, quick to anger and quick to laugh. And Mary Kelly, hurt but determined, a young woman with her whole life ahead of her and ripped away in the worst of ways.

She can almost imagine it if she closes her eyes: the ghostly impressions of these women moving through the home, and the marks they've made on this house, these men, Jacob. This is Jacob's real home, she thinks. This is what he's built in the past twenty years. He brought men and women into a home and made them into a family, a Brotherhood. And then Jack, mad, lost Jack, took it all away.

No. Jack doesn't get to win this. She won't let all these years have been for nothing.

The morning passes by, the conversation lighthearted and heartbreaking by turns. She regrets it, almost, when there's a knock on the door that interrupts the flow. “Nellie,” Evie remembers, and Arjun jumps up quickly to open the door. There's a murmur of conversation, and then he comes back, leading Nellie behind him.

“Nellie!” Andrew says, standing up with Edward following suit. “It's good to see that you're alive.”

“And you,” Nellie says. Her smile is shaky but genuine as she looks around. “Thanks for inviting me here.”

“You're welcome to stay, if you like,” Andrew says. “Surely it must be safer than your lodgings at the Swan's Wing.”

Nellie shrugs. “Is Mr. Frye here?” she asks, looking at Evie.

“No, but he's alive and recuperating as best he can,” Evie tells her. It doesn't escape her how Nellie avoids Andrew's invitation, though, and she files that away in her mind for later. “How are you, Nellie?”

“Oh, good,” Nellie says, but there's a small nervous waver to her voice. “Killing Lady O's changed a few things. Clients, well, there have always been fewer clients after—” she swallows— “someone dies. Miss Roman, our madam; she looks like she might be getting ready to run for it. There have been men around lately asking questions.”

“About…?”

Nellie shrugs again. “Just. You know. Lady O liked for us to get information. A man's most willing to talk when he's—” She glances at the men and ducks her head. “I mean, we learned things. And Lady O liked that, but some people don't. Or they want to know what we know.”

“Is it just the Swan's Wing, Nellie?” Andrew asks.

Nellie shakes her head. “No. I talked to some of the girls who work in Adelbrook and the Farthing, and they've seen them around too. Maybe it's nothing.” She tries on a watery smile. “Nobody ever got hurt for just looking.”

“It's never just 'nothing',” Evie murmurs. “Nellie, you should stay here tonight. It would be safer.”

“No, miss, I've got to go back to work. They'll get suspicious if I don't show up for my shift,” Nellie says. “But I thought you should know. One man, the Admiral; he's been asking the loudest questions of them all. Sending a few of his brutes around.”

“The Admiral?” Evie asks.

“Not an actual admiral. He just likes to call himself that because he owns a ship on the Thames. Several ships, and he loves to brag about them. Fucking prick,” she spits with sudden vehemence. “His real name is Maurice Luther.”

“Maurice Luther,” Andrew says, sounding thoughtful. “He's got a fair number of properties in Whitechapel. He's in close with Elise Russelin too, if I recall. She's the leader of the Rooks there,” he says in reply to Evie's inquiring glance.

Maurice Luther, Elise Russelin. Not names that Evie recognizes, but then again, that's hardly a surprise these days. She tilts her head, considering. Two decades ago, she and Jacob started small. They took the Clinkers, a tiny, run-down gang, and conquered the Blighters one faction at time. They handled the main territory fights themselves, but they placed trusted lieutenants in charge of various districts, using one side of London to defend the other. Back then, it was her and Jacob on the surface, but in reality it was many, many more.

“Mr. Rochester,” she says. “Who are the current leaders in the Rooks who are still loyal to the Brotherhood?”

Andrew pauses, and he begins listing names. It's a woefully short list, but all she needs are the two she recognizes. Paul Connors, a boy that Jacob rescued from one of Starrick's factories. And Clara O'Dea, no doubt grown from a canny child into an equally shrewd woman.

“Right,” she says. “Mr. Milliken, I know you have to meet with the solicitor today, and I will leave you to that. Mr. Singh, Mr. Rochester, if you could arrange a watch over Nellie and make sure that no harm comes to her tonight, I would be very grateful.”

“Of course,” Arjun says, sounding anxious. “But what about you, ma'am?”

“I'm going to talk to some old friends,” she says. “And we shall see if something can't be done about the Rooks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my resolve to keep the story Jacob & Evie centered, it turns out that rebuilding London is hella more complicated and you can't just handwave over it with "AND THEN THINGS WERE FIXED AGAIN YEY". Gosh. When I first started, I was like, "This is going to be a nice little short piece with tons of J&E angst, whoo!" Looks like it's starting to spiral a bit out of control.


	5. Chapter 5

It's dark when she finally returns to her lodgings in the City with food in tow. There's no sound from inside as she opens the door, but some sixth sense, honed from years of experience, has her on full alert as she steps into her rooms. Quietly, she sets the food down onto the table and switches to eagle vision, looking towards Jacob's room. He's there, it tells her, but he's—well. He's sitting upright, which wouldn't be strange by itself, but he's not moving. She stares at his outline for a moment, gold in the world of grey shadows.

“Jacob?” she calls quietly. “Are you all right?”

He doesn't move. Cautiously, Evie approaches the door to his room. She doesn't need a light to see in the dark, but the trade-off is the eerie, ghostly air of eagle vision. Jacob's staring straight ahead, his lips slightly parted as he breathes in and out. His hands are clenched tight in his lap, and he's perfectly still other than the soft rise and fall of his chest. Rigid, almost.

She wonders how long he's been like this. Lightly, she touches his shoulder. “Jacob?”

The result is explosive. He surges upwards from the bed, his left hand punching her hard in the throat with the base of his palm. She gasps in both surprise and pain, gagging hard. That's a fatal blow, or it would be if he was wielding a hidden blade. As it is, she staggers backward under the force of his attack, and there's a horrible moment of disorientation where she's both struggling for air and fighting the instinct to stab forward. Jacob lunges after her, and they crash hard into the ground together, his hands raking at her arms.

There's no time to be gentle. She fights back, kicking out as hard as she can. There's just the briefest second where his grip wavers, and she takes that opportunity to lash out, grabbing his arm in her hand and slamming it flat against the ground. He flails in her hold, his eyes wild and unseeing. “Jack,” she can hear him say, guttural and low with pain. “Jack, you can't, you don't, no nonono—”

“Jacob!” she says. “Jacob, it's me. It's Evie. Wake up, you're safe, Jack's gone, I promise!”

Oh, God, she doesn't want to hurt him, but he's thrashing about hard enough that he's going to hurt himself. With a grunt of effort, she flips them so she's on top of him, trapping his arms on either side with her weight. His chest is heaving up and down with pained, rapid pants, and his head turns wildly from side to side, still trying to find a way out. “Jacob,” she says again, low and urgent. “It's all right. It's all right. I promise. Wake up now. Wake up, _please_ wake up...”

His struggles grow weaker. She can see the exact moment when lucidity bleeds back into his eyes—he gasps like it's his first breath after drowning, and he sags, going limp under her. She stays poised on top of him, searching his face in the dark. His gaze is skittering about the dark room as if searching for some figure in the shadows, and she can see the whites of his eyes in the dark. She stays perfectly still, waiting until his eyes eventually settle and lock onto hers. “Evie?” he whispers.

“I'm here, Jacob,” she says. “You're in my lodgings in the City. You've been here for the past week and more. What's the last thing you remember?”

He licks his lips. “I don't know,” he says, and his voice is raspy. “I was. I was here.” She can feel a full body shiver run through him. “It's dark.”

“Yes, it is,” she says. “But you're safe now in my rooms. You never have to go back to the Asylum ever again.”

She can see him blink in the dark, rapid and unseeing. “Jack—”

“Is dead,” she says firmly. “He's dead now. I killed him the day that I found you.”

She shifts her weight so that she's no longer sitting on his ribs, but she stays watchful in case he tries to struggle again. “All right now?” she asks as his eyes close and he breathes in, slow and deep. “How do you feel?”

He opens his eyes. There's a horrifying moment of blankness, but it fades in the next second. He gives her a smile—false, wan, and tired. But it's an effort, and that's something. “Ouch,” he says. “You've gotten heavy when you were in India.”

It's a weak attempt at a joke. She moves off of him, sitting down onto the ground next to his head. He stays flat on the floor, though, not moving from where she left him. “It's a curse,” she tells him as brightly as she can. “I've gotten too old for this line of work.”

“You and me both,” he says, all levity gone.

They sit in the dark for a while longer. His breathing is slowing now, settling into a pattern that no longer speaks of terror. She reaches out, touching his forehead to check his temperature. He feels a little too warm—not fever warm, just flushed. “When did you wake up?” she asks quietly.

There's a pause before he answers. “I don't know,” he says. “I woke up, took a piss, came back to bed. I knew you must be out, but there wasn't a note. I wasn't sure if you were here to begin with or if I'd just dreamt it all.”

“I told you yesterday that I was going to meet with your Assassins,” she reminds him gently.

“Yes—yes. I know. But I didn't know if I remembered that or if it was a dream. I—it was dark. That's all.” He exhales, slow and shaky.

It's not all. It's barely scratching the surface. He shifts away from her slightly, though, and she knows that he doesn't want to speak further about it. For a moment, she debates pushing him, as if there's some hope that she can somehow purge his nightmares with conversation alone. He might yield, he might not. But would it do them any good even if he did?

“All right,” she says, acquiescing to his reticence. “I'll give us some light, then. That'll help us both.”

He doesn't say anything. She stands and lights the lamps, pushing away the darkness. Turning, she looks back at Jacob, still lying on the floor. He's dressed in a shirt and trousers that she'd bought for him a few days ago, and they hang loosely on his frame. He looks up at her, not making an effort to get up, and she suspects it's because he can't. “Is the view from the floor that exciting?” she says.

“It's fascinating,” he says with a hint of his old humor. “People really don't clean under their beds as often as they should.”

“Ah. Perhaps you'd rather look at something other than dust and dirt, then. Out the window, even,” she says, offering a hand. There's a moment's hesitation, and then he reaches up towards her. His hand is bony in hers, and she's carrying most of his weight in the process. She can hear his muffled grunt of pain halfway through, and she bends over, wrapping her arm around his waist and settling him onto the bed.

“I'll call on Dr. Schultz in the morning,” she says as a wince crosses his face. His ribs can't have enjoyed the fight. “I want to make sure that you haven't re-injured anything.”

“Mmm,” he says. Slowly, he pushes himself back until he's resting against the headboard. She moves some pillows up against his back, and he leans back into them with a groan. He tilts his head to look back at her, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a tiny, exhausted smile. “That was the most excitement I've had in weeks.”

“I can imagine,” she agrees, keeping her voice light. “Now. Do you think you could manage some supper?”

He nods. She heads back out to the other room, arranging dinner into two bowls. It's nothing fancy, just pork chops and stewed green beans. On a whim, she'd gotten a slice of fruit cake, but she's not sure if he can even manage the main course. It won't do anyone any harm, at least, and she leaves it on the table. “Here,” she says as she returns to his room. She hands his bowl to him and seats herself in the chair next to his bed. “Fresh from the local tavern.”

“You haven't eaten yet?” he says, gesturing at the bowl still in her hands. “I would've thought that the lads would've invited you to supper.”

“It was a busy day,” she says with a sigh. She watches him pointedly until he digs into his bowl, making sure that he chews and swallows before she takes a bite of her own food. “I met with your Assassins at the townhouse this morning. It's a lovely house, you know. Better decorated than I would have expected from you,” she says, trying to tease him.

That earns her a small snort, but it sounds more amused than tired, which is good. “It's one of my many hidden talents,” he says. “Assassination and house decoration all in one.”

“Not both at once, I hope,” she retorts. “But yes. It was a good place. And your men: Andrew, Edward, Arjun. They're good lads, all of them. London-born all?”

“Arjun was born in India, but his parents immigrated to London when he was two. So just about,” Jacob says. “He'll be a good Assassin if he can stop being so damn shy.”

“Well, not all of us can be so dashingly debonair,” she says, smiling. “Have you been missing your hats, by the way? I'll buy you one for Christmas if you like.”

“No, don't bother. I've lost one too many over the years. It doesn't seem worth it to keep acquiring more,” he says. He gestures towards his head in a vague motion with his left hand and winces. “Ouch.”

“Try not to move your arm too much,” she advises. “I don't want you to tear your wound open again.”

“Yes, Mother,” he says, sounding dry.

“It's a second instinct by now,” she tells him, and he laughs softly. “I can't help it. Once you start mothering, it doesn't really stop.”

“Ah. Parvati's trained you well, has she? How is she, by the way?”

“In the best of ways,” she says fondly. “And she's fine. Doing very well. She'll be sent out on her first mission in the next year or two, I think. She's almost ready.”

“Ready to kill,” he says, completing the sentence. She glances at him, confused at the strange inflection he puts on the words. He's not looking at her, though, his gaze fixed on his bowl. “We killed on our first mission. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” she says. The years have blurred the details, but she remembers the spray of blood and the heady sharpness of adrenaline. They had been assigned to guard someone, she thinks: George, perhaps, as he took down his target? Something like that. And they hadn't been ordered to kill, but they'd done it anyway in defense, because they were— _are—_ Assassins. And it had been easy. Not disturbingly so, but—still. Easy.

“That was the hard part for most of them,” Jacob says, sounding distant. “Elizabeth never wanted to kill. Neither does Edward. The most I think he'll ever do is perhaps stab someone with a pen out of frustration. The others, though, they were all blooded in the proper way. Some of them hated it. Some of them accepted it.” A pause. “Jack loved it.”

Jack, the figure in the shadows. The conversation threatens to drag Jacob back into dark memory, and quickly, Evie tries to steer it away. “I noticed that Edward and Arjun didn't bear the Assassin gauntlets,” she says, keeping her voice light and airy. “Mr. Rochester did, though. He's a big man, and the others seemed to defer to him.”

Does her ploy work? Her heart lifts as Jacob seems to shake away the fog and respond to her. “Yes,” he says. “Andrew's the second Assassin that I trained. No one knows the gangs quite like he does.”

“That's certainly a good thing, when it comes to the Rooks,” she says. “They've have gotten bigger than we ever imagined they could, haven't they? A problem in their own right. It's all a lot more complicated than I thought it would be.”

Jacob's hands pause from where the spoon was lifting to his mouth, and he settles them back into his lap. He looks down, and then unexpectedly, laughs. The sound is harsh. “Oh, right. Perfect Evie,” he says, making it sound like an insult. She frowns at the reaction, confused at the sudden vehemence. “Yes. I lost control of them,” he says. “They're Jack's gang now and the second terror of London.”

What…?

That hadn't been what she was trying to imply at _all_. There's something lurking under the ice here, and it's thin ice at that. “I mean—it's something that we should have expected,” she says, choosing her words with deliberation. “They've grown beyond what any one person can reasonably control. Or even a single group. I'd be more surprised if it hadn't happened, actually.”

“But it did, and now you're here,” he says, and there's a bitter edge of self-deprecation to his voice. “And you've made arrangements to whip them all into shape already. They'll see you and step straight into line. No room for doubt when it comes to Evie Frye, not when it comes to fixing her brother's messes.”

She stares at him, surprised. It's been a long time since she's thought in those terms, but the sharpness in his tone betrays the fact that he must have been thinking about this for a while. How long exactly, she doesn't know, but enough to poison mind and thought. He lifts his chin and meets her gaze defiantly, his jaw clenched tight. Is he—is he angry with her? Does he think that she's usurping his territory, taking over what's rightfully his?

No. That's not quite it.

It's not jealousy that drives this, she realizes. It's not even anger, not really. If she had to put a name to it, it would be _despair_. Self-loathing, self-hatred, and above all, guilt. It's not just about the gangs, which makes the problem so much more difficult to solve. It's everything—Jack and the long line of corpses he left in his wake, the crumbling destruction of what took decades to build, and worst of all, Jacob's failure to stop any of it from happening.

Oh, God, what can she say? The silence stretches on too long as she searches for an answer. Jacob wavers. His gaze slides away from hers, and his head drops to his chest as the defiance seeps away. “Never mind,” he says, and her heart clenches. He's giving up, and that's worse than any insult he can try to throw at her. “I'm sorry. Forget I said anything.”

“Jacob—”

“Evie. I'm sorry. Please.”

It's not quite begging, but it's close. She wants to ignore his plea to stop. She wants to reach forward and unmask Jacob's guilt from where it's hiding, bring it out into the light and soothe it away. But he's asking her to stop, and she must listen. Jack's taken away enough of his dignity already, and she won't be the one to rip what he has left to shreds. Reluctantly, she settles back.

The silence is almost absurdly loud. Jacob's stopped eating, and his head still lowered. His hair isn't very long, but it's enough to obscure his eyes from this angle. It's matted with sweat and blood still, and she itches to clean it. “Jacob,” she says.

He doesn't look up. Reaching out, she brushes his hair out of his eyes and studies his face. He's staring listlessly at nothing in particular. She tugs gently at the fringe of his hair, and his head follows the movement with no resistance whatsoever.

“You haven't finished your supper yet,” she says.

His right shoulder lifts in a tiny half-shrug, and she bites the inside of her cheek. They're in the same place they were yesterday, with the same paralyzing depression settling over Jacob like a shroud. She can't change anything about the circumstances that have brought them here. All they can do is to move forward, but they're both trapped in the dark with nowhere to go. Where is the light from here? There is none.

It's so quiet.

“They're good men,” she says to Jacob's still form. It's an inane thing to say, perhaps not related to anything at all, but she can't stand the silence any longer. “I talked with them for hours this morning. They told me stories, you know, about life in the townhome. How the kitchen always smelled liked cookies with Elizabeth was around, because she loved to bake. And the training room in the basement, how Mary Nichols had nearly fainted the first time she held a knife, but she was determined to learn how to protect herself and others like her.”

Jacob says nothing. Evie leans back and closes her eyes, pretending that she's telling a story. It's a happier time in this fantasy of hers, and all she has to do is to let the cadence of her voice carry through the room. “There were serious stories, but there were the funny ones, too,” she says. “There was the time that there was a shooting contest in the basement for some mysterious reason, and two pipes were blown to shreds. Catherine won, of course. Or there was that time when Andrew lost a bet, and everyone had to eat his godawful cooking for a week. And the first time Arjun tried to perform a Leap of Faith and landed into the Thames instead. He didn't want Andrew to tell that story, believe me.” She laughs. “But even though they teased him, Andrew and Annie still fished him out of the water, although they wouldn't let him into the carriage until he'd changed his clothes.”

She smiles. “So many stories, Jacob. And you know what? Through all this, there was one thing I realized more than anything else,” she says. “They were a family. They _are_ a family. These men and women, they came from the gangs, from the brothels. Many of them are from poverty of the worst kind. They saw injustice in the world, and you saw their desire to change it. You wanted to help them, and so you trained them to become Assassins. No, it didn't always work out. But you gave them what they needed in the best way possible.”

She opens her eyes. Jacob's head is still lowered, but she touches his cheek now, cradling it in her hand. His beard is rough against her palm, and she can feel the soft warmth of his breath on her fingers. “You've done well, Jacob,” she says quietly. “So very well, and I am so proud of you. You built a Brotherhood here. You are a mentor, a teacher, a leader. And I know that it feels like it's all gone, that Jack destroyed everything. But it's not. He did not. He _will not_ touch the core of what you've made here. The Assassins—we're still here, and we will continue to fight so long as we can draw breath.” Leaning forward, she kisses him gently on the temple. “It will be all right. I promise.”

Jacob shivers. It's a fine, almost delicate tremor, but it's there nonetheless. “You can't promise that,” he says, his voice a bare whisper.

“I can,” she says firmly. “I can, and I will. Do you know why? Because Jack's dead, and we're very much alive. His Creed is a twisted one of murder and evil, and it's the sort that will lead to its own destruction. What we did twenty years ago; what you did all these years: it will bear fruit and rebuild itself. I spoke to a few of the Rooks today, and they're not all lost to us. Clara, Paul—they are the children that we helped all those years ago. They're going to help us now.”

She reaches forward and hugs him tight. “We rebuilt London once. We'll do it again.”

God. If this were a play penned by some romantic's hand, she thinks wearily, Jacob would rise with a newfound fire in his eyes, ready to take on the world head on. There would be swelling music in the background, perhaps, with a crown of sunlight appearing from nowhere to gild his head, and then it would be over. The story would end on a beautiful note, with the triumph of London unfurling into a golden future for the reader to imagine at their own pleasure.

But no. This is reality, and as it is, the bleakness persists. There's just the quiet of the room, broken only by the soft sounds of their breathing.

Jacob's eyes are closed. He's not asleep, though, she knows that much. He still looks sick and pale, far too thin and far too weary. And if she'll be honest, he's filthy and smells terrible, too. His ribs may have been re-cracked from their fight earlier, and no doubt his wounded shoulder is aching fiercely from his swing earlier. He doesn't complain, although his hand reaches up and holds onto hers like it's a lifeline.

She doesn't know how long they sit there together in silence. She looks with a little regret at the supper bowls, still mostly full. It's been a long day and she's hungry, but something tells her that it's not quite over yet. She lets Jacob lean against her, supporting his weight with her own.

She's so tired.

“Evie?” he says.

She looks at him. Jacob's eyes are half-lidded but open nonetheless. “Yes?”

“They're there?” he asks. He sounds detached and laconic, but he's speaking, which is better than nothing. “All three of them?”

“Yes,” she confirms. “All three of them, alive and safe.”

He sighs. It's a resigned sort of sigh, the careful bookend to a decision laboriously made. “I think,” he says, and she waits. “I think that I'd like to take a bath now.”

…well. All right then.

It's not quite what she expected, but it's different. That's something. And perhaps feeling cleaner will make Jacob feel refreshed in other ways as well. “All right,” she says carefully. “I'll draw the bath.” She waits for him to say something else, but he doesn't, so she pulls away and heads to the washroom.

Turning on the taps, she watches in meditative silence as the water flows steadily into the tub, curls of steam rising through the room. When it's two-thirds full, she turns the taps off and heads back to Jacob. Step by aching step, she helps him to the bathroom and settles him on the rim of the tub. She'd purchased a second set of clean clothing along with the first, and she fetches that now, setting it next to him.

“Be careful of the cast,” she tells him before leaving him alone to undress. “The bandages we can replace easily, the cast is harder.”

He nods wordlessly and closes the door. She leaves him to it, retreating into his room to reclaim her supper. It's mostly cold now, but it helps fill some of the hole in her stomach. She leaves Jacob's bowl sitting on the bedside table. Hopefully he'll reclaim his appetite later.

The bowl is empty. She sets it aside to take care of later. Jacob's still in the bathroom, and she checks just briefly to make sure that he's still alive. He is, and she returns to the room. Settling back onto the mattress that she's called her own, she pulls the pillow up under her head and stares up at the ceiling.

The day has been draining in more ways than one, and she's exhausted. With a sigh, she closes her eyes. She'll rest for just a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter had no J&E, so hopefully this makes up for it! Like I said, Jacob's not okay, and at some point Evie will inevitably begin to fall apart to some degree as well. Time's the only thing that really fixes all, but we have to start somewhere. This is the first step.
> 
> Shameless bit of self-promotion: their first kill, written from Evie's POV, is the third chapter of my other AC fic, _Strands_. Which I have been mostly ignoring in favor of this one, but I will get back to it. At some point. I swear.
> 
> Happy various holidays that folks may celebrate!


	6. Chapter 6

_Interlude: Jacob_

His casted foot is propped on the edge of the tub. The rest of him, he sinks underneath the water as much as possible, coming up only for short breaths of air. Evie got the temperature perfect, of course, because she's Evie. She's always been good at things like this. Things like everything, if he's going to be honest.

The heat of the water mutes things, somehow. Every bit of him aches: ribs, shoulder, head, back, heart. Under the water, though, all of it becomes less urgent, and he wonders what it would be like it would be to stay there forever. Nice, he thinks. Quiet, probably, although he's not too sure if that's a good or bad thing. He's had a lot of quiet lately, the deafening sort that slows time to a crawl and drives men insane.

But then again, the quiet meant that Jack wasn't there, so there's that. Jack had never given him the choice as to which he would suffer, and in a strange way, Jacob is grateful for that. Having to choose would have made everything so much worse, because it's always been his choices that have destroyed things. He could have saved them. He could have stopped Jack. He _should_ have seen the signs so much sooner…

He opens his eyes, staring blankly upwards. There's light up there, distorted as it is through the water. All he has to do is to break the surface. All he has to do is to stand up, take charge, pretend that he's someone that he's not anymore. This isn't Evie's responsibility, it's his. He knows that. She knows that. The whole damn world knows that, and yet here he is, being a coward once again.

_You never did have the balls for it, Jacob. You and your precious little pets. Can't you see how useless it's all been?_

Jack's voice sounds in his ear, as clearly as if the man is right beside him. Jacob flinches away, involuntarily slamming himself against the edge of the tub. His head breaks the water, which is just as well because he's gasping for air, fighting like those early days when he still had the strength to fight. But it wasn't any use then and it's not any use now, because even though Jack is dead, his shade still lingers. Jack had his knife, yes, but what was far worse were his taunts deep down in the dark.

_Do you know what they sounded like when they died, Jacob? Do you know how they wailed and screamed as I_ _slit them open?_ _Come now, listen to the tale. You will be their final witness._

He's relived their deaths a thousand times in his head. Catherine had crawled away on her hands and knees, desperate with terror. Mary Ann had turned to beg for mercy even as her entrails painted the ground red. Annie had cried, her hands outstretched as if calling out to some uncaring deity. And all of them had fought, but it hadn't been enough. It wasn't enough.

It will never be enough, not from him.

A lifetime ago, he'd sent Nellie away with a desperate letter for Evie. Evie had come just like he'd known she would, dropping everything in India and charging back to London just for him. And that's what he'd wanted, because Evie would make everything right. Except Jack had known the second that her ship docked in the harbor, the second she stepped into London—

_Do you know who I saw today? Dearest Evie, walking in her brother's footsteps. She traces your blood in Whitechapel even now, racing to find you. You must be lonely here in the dark. Shall I bring you company?_

—and all Jacob could think of was how he'd lured his sister straight into the jaws of the trap, and how she would be the next victim to fall to Jack's blade. Jack had promised him that, and in the dark, everything is true. Nothing, not even hope, is permitted.

Jacob leans over the edge of the tub, panting raggedly as he fights back the terror. She's alive, he tells himself frantically. She's alive, she's right outside, and everything will be fine now. You don't have to watch her die, just as you watched Mary Ann and Catherine and Elizabeth and Annie. Jack's gone and it's only his ghost's that left, you can breathe easy now, he can't hurt you any longer.

 _Is that what you think? Oh, Jacob._   _I won't let you go so easily._

Jacob shoves himself out of the tub, landing awkwardly onto the tiles. With shaking fingers, he dries himself as fast as he can with the towel and pulls his clothes on. Heedless of whatever injury might be complaining, he limps back to the other room where the lamps still keep darkness at bay. For a moment, he can't see her, and his heart nearly stops in his chest. _Gone_ , _gone_ , Jack's voice whispers, soft laughter echoing in his ear, and Jacob wants to scream—

Oh. She's sleeping.

The room seems to swim around him. He reaches out blindly, grasping onto the door for support even as his knees fail him. Staring at her, he's sick with the memory of fear and helplessness. Never again, he thinks. He won't destroy any more than he already has.

Evie's here in London, but he knows that her heart's not really here. Not anymore. It's with her husband and child, with the Indian Brotherhood. The Indian Brotherhood is very different from the English one: they've had a strong base there for centuries, and there's not nearly the same worries about power struggles. No, their focus is a different one: artifacts, mysteries, research beyond contemplation. She went to India for her life's work, but she left it for him. And that is...that is _unacceptable_ , in so many ways.

He breathes. Takes in the night air of London, once familiar and comforting. Watches her carefully, reassuring himself that she's truly all right. Slowly, he gathers his resolve.

He pushes himself up to his feet and steps over to her bedside. Leaning over, he draws the blanket over her, tucking it under her chin. His ribs protest the motion, but he ignores them. She doesn't stir, her breath remaining calm and even. The Assassin life is one that leads to very light slumber, and if she hasn't woken up, she must be exhausted beyond measure. Because of him. Because of what he's asked of her, even if it wasn't a conscious question.

It's enough. He's asked more than plenty already.

He's done enough sleeping these past few days. He arranges a few pillows on the floor and sits down on the ground, the warmth of Evie by his side. Turning his face towards the window, he waits for the dawn.


	7. Chapter 7

It's bright.

Evie groans. The light is piercingly bright even though her eyes are closed, and she flings an arm over to cover them. It helps a little, but she's acutely aware of the warmth on the rest of her face. She must be lying directly in a ray of sunshine, she thinks drowsily. Which means that it's bright outside. Which means that it must be—

“Good morning.”

Startled, she opens her eyes and sits up. She regrets it in the next instant as the sunlight hits her full-on, and she ducks her head to cover her eyes. She's looking down at the mattress when a shadow falls over her, shading her from the sun, and slowly, she looks up. Jacob's standing in front of her, albeit with one hand on the wall for support. She squints up at him blearily, half-awake and confused. “Jacob?” she says roughly.

“Yes, Evie?” he says, sounding entirely far too cheerful.

“You're awake,” she says blankly.

“Excellent observation in your old age,” he says, quirking an eyebrow at her. The side of his mouth is pulled up in an impish half-grin. It's such a _Jacob_ response, and yet it's so utterly unexpected that she can't do much more than stare at him in surprise. “You're catching flies,” he says after a moment, and she closes her mouth hastily. “I can see you're your charming morning self. Hungry?”

She must be dreaming, she thinks dazedly. She scrubs her hand against her eyes, trying to dislodge the last cobwebs of sleep. Before she can lower it, though, she feels him take it and gently uncurl her fingers. His fingers are rough and warm to the touch. Something square and slightly damp is placed into her palm, and she lowers her hand, staring at the slice of fruitcake that's appeared there as if by magic.

Fruitcake. Right. She'd bought it yesterday, thinking it might serve as some sort of dessert, and now it's in her hand. Why is it in her hand again?

“Fruitcake for breakfast?” she asks slowly. It's a mystery of the universe, this fruitcake, and she's going to unravel here it crumb by crumb. “Not very healthy, is it?” she adds inanely.

“Well,” he drawls, “I won't tell Father if you won't. It'll be our secret.”

... _what_?

He draws the curtains, hiding the sun from view. With a grunt, he sits down next to her and pulls out his own slice of fruitcake, seemingly from thin air. He starts to nibble on it apparently without a care in the world, and it makes the whole situation just even more surreal. From this angle, she can see shadows of bruises around his eye, and that's her only reassurance that she hasn't gone completely mad. Jacob sounds—he sounds _happy_. He's dressed in clean clothes. For God's sake, he's even shaved _._

What on earth happened last night after she fell asleep?

“So,” Jacob's saying, and he still sounds so bizarrely normal. “What plans do you have for today? I was thinking that I might go back to the townhouse. I need to talk to the others and see what they've been up to in my absence. Mischief, no doubt.” He flashes her a grin. “My errant children. I'm sure you know the feeling.”

“I'm sure I do,” she says weakly.

“You've had plenty of experience, I'm sure.” She blinks at him, unsure of what to say in response. As the moment goes by, Jacob gives a pointed nod to the fruitcake still cupped in her palm. “It's quite tasty, you know. I promise I didn't spit on it.”

Mechanically, she lifts it to her mouth and takes a bite. It's good. So that's good. “Jacob—” she begins.

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” he interrupts.

Taken aback, she chews and swallows obediently before setting the fruitcake back onto the bed, heedless of the crumbs. Jacob's looking at her with that achingly familiar smile, and the world has never felt more wrong. Slowly, she reaches out and touches his face. He's solid and warm under her fingers. His hair is clean and smooth. She traces a thumb over the fading bruise around his eye, struggling to piece together a coherent thought.

He laughs softly against her hand. “You should see the look on your face,” he says. “'Discombobulated' would be putting it mildly.”

She jerks her hand back as if she's been burned. He's watching her with a wry smile, one that's she's very acquainted with over the years. It's all fine, the smile says. He looks fine, he sounds fine, and it's as if the events of the past couple months have been erased with only a blur of ink to show for it. Some part of her wonders if she should just be happy for him, accept it for whatever miracle it is and move on. Except miracles don't happen. Do they?

(But what if they do, and by questioning this too much, she'll undo whatever this is? There's something wrong here, but if she can't even properly articulate _what_ , maybe there's nothing here at all?)

“You've got that look on your face,” Jacob says, sounding amused. “Out with it, then.”

She wipes her expression clean, but that by itself may as well be a huge giveaway. Her thoughts are a whirlwind behind the mask. There's no way, none at all, that Jacob could have exorcised Jack's ghost in a single night. He shouldn't _be_ fine, and the fact that he is shows only that something is very, very wrong. Just yesterday he was lost in a haze of nightmares and depression, and no one gets better in a single night. Have a hundred years passed by while she was sleeping? she wonders wildly. Does London still even exist outside of her window? The curtains are drawn now, so she can't properly tell, and it seems as likely now as anything else.

“What happened last night after I fell asleep?” she asks finally.

“You really are getting old,” he says, sounding fond.

“Jacob!” she says. Her reply is fast, instinctive, one that she gives without thinking. It's a repeat of a familiar dance that they've done a thousand times before: Jacob's wit, her affectionate exasperation in reply. The world seems ever more temptingly dreamlike, and it's a struggle to stand resolute in her questioning. She shakes her head, trying to organize her thoughts. “Last night, I remember I came back after a long day out,” she says, considering each word carefully before she says it. “You were in a memory of some sort, a nightmare, and you attacked me.” She stops and wets her lips. “Do you remember that?”

Jacob gives her a sidelong glance. “I do,” he says. He sounds somber now, but also strangely calm. “I remember that. I'm sorry I did that.”

“I'm not asking for an apology,” she says, bewildered. “I'm just wondering what—I don't—” She looks down at her hands in her lap, hating how they twist over each other almost involuntarily. She stills them with an effort. “Jacob. Yesterday was a mess. You were depressed and traumatized, and that's fine. I don't blame you for any of that, do you understand? You're surprisingly alert today, that's all. It's different.“

His gaze slides away from hers, and she watches him carefully for his reaction. The lines of his jaw tighten just slightly, but his expression doesn't otherwise change. “I know. I did some thinking last night about what you said,” he says, and all traces of glibness are gone from his voice. “Evie, you're right.”

“I am?” she says. There's an obvious joke there, but she pushes it aside. This isn't the time for that.

“Yes,” he says, and his eyes are very distant for a moment. “I can't mourn them forever, and I can't let Jack stop me from doing what needs to be doing. The Brotherhood still exists, as does London. That's what important. That's what I have to focus on.”

His voice is very composed. The words are reasoned, his tone is measured, and it's a concise summary of what she wanted him to understand yesterday. So everything's all right, except that it isn't, because it all sounds like it's been—what is it—

Rehearsed.

Yes. That's the word for it, she realizes suddenly. Jacob's voice is too even, almost as if he's been practicing the speech all night. The words are perfectly placed, tailored to what he thinks she wants to hear. (What she thinks that he thinks that she wants to hear? That particular rabbit hole is never-ending.) So what really is there, underneath the practiced poise?

She can't tell what he's thinking, and that throws her off balance more than anything else. She can handle his pain; she has strength enough for them both. But he's shutting her out now, offering her a shallow mirage instead, and _she doesn't understand why_.

“Jacob,” she says carefully, “I never asked you to stop mourning.”

“I know you didn't, Evie,” he says quietly. “And I haven't stopped, believe me. But I can't let it stop _me_.”

She sucks in a harsh breath, and Jacob looks back at her at the sound. His smile is small and almost wistful, but right now it's just another piece in this puzzle. Once again, she wonders if she's been transported to some strange dream world. The world is coaxing her to accept this, and Jacob offers no handholds to pull herself back to reality.

She stands up, unable to sit still any longer. She pushes open the curtains and stares outdoors towards the city, scrutinizing it for signs that a century or more has drawn by. It's as strong a possibility as anything else right now, but it's a hypothesis that quickly fades. No, it's still 1888 if she's any judge, which means—something. Maybe. She closes her eyes, trying to root out the source of her discomfiture.

A hand on her shoulder, heavy and warm. She doesn't turn to look at him, but she knows that he's standing behind her. “You're overthinking things, Evie,” he says, disturbing her reverie. His voice is gentle. “It'll be fine. I promise.”

It's an almost cruel parody of her promise to him yesterday. “What is this?” she says, and her tone is sharper than she wants it to be. She's frustrated, and it's showing through the cracks despite her best efforts to stay tranquil. “What are you trying to do here, Jacob?”

“I'm trying to move on,” he says, and he still sounds so maddeningly calm. “Let me do this. Please.”

 _Move on_. Isn't that the goal? Isn't that she wanted for him? To move on, so they can proceed to the next of the never-ending list of problems with the Brotherhood, the Rooks, the Unfortunates, and whatever else that London may to decide to throw at them. Who is she to ruin this for him? If it is real, then it's better than she could have imagined. If it's false—

But why would he pretend to _her_ , of all people? She's seen him at his best and his worst, and a decade more apart doesn't change that. She's seen him shit himself, for God's sake, and she's seen the depths of his sheer despair of just a few days ago. So why? It doesn't make sense.

His gaze is steady and unfathomable. “Jacob,” she says, moving slowly across uncertain ground. “You know that you can talk to me, right? I'll always be here to listen if you need me.”

Does she see something? His expression flickers for the briefest second, but it's gone so quickly that she isn't sure if it happened at all. And even if it did, she has no idea what it could possibly mean, nor time to analyze it as he slides his good arm around her and draws her close. “I know,” he breathes quietly into her hair. “Believe me, I know.”

It's all right, he's saying, and more than a part of her wants to believe it. Cautiously, she allows the touch, leaning in and letting him fill her senses. His scent is familiar, and it will always speak of home to her no matter how long she's been in India.

“Better?” he asks, and there's a hint of a smile in his voice.

No. “Yes,” she says, and she hopes fervently that it's true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant quote: "Never trust a hug. It's just a way to hide your face."
> 
> There might be a mild timeskip in later chapters. We'll see.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been stalled a bit on this story, and it's taken me a while to figure out exactly why. After some thinking, I've decided to remove the timestamps from each chapter. I think that sticking to a day-by-day replay is going to prove to be too tedious to do in the long-term, and doing that allows me to have more freedom to jump around to the scenes that are actually interesting to write. The general plot should be the same, though, aka "Jacob and Evie have Feelings, and oh there's also a city and some other guys and maybe plot things happen? idk". Whoo!
> 
> Also, I was listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kdHF4uE7M0U) more or less nonstop while writing this. Pretty fitting background music imho.

In keeping with the complete surreality of the morning, she half-expects Jacob to talk idly about the weather or something equally inane as their carriage makes its bumpy way to the townhouse. He's quiet, though, his face turned away from her as he looks out the window with a seemingly intense interest. She reaches out to touch him on the shoulder, and he turns to give her the briefest of smiles before turning back to the window. “Jacob?” she asks quietly. “Are you all right?”

He doesn't answer for a moment, and the carriage continues to rattle and roll through the streets. Finally, he says, “Do you remember when we first came to London?”

There's a strange tone to his voice. “Yes,” she says cautiously. “The city has changed much since then, of course.”

He doesn't look away from the window. “It's so crowded,” he says. His voice is soft and distant, and somehow, it's the most genuine thing she's heard from him all day. “I forgot how busy it is.”

She straightens on the seat. “We don't have to do this today,” she says, trying for calm. “Jacob, it's all right if you want to rest for a few more days. I'm sure the others will understand.”

He turns to her with a impish grin, and she wants to reach across the space that separates them and slap him silly. “No,” he says. “I was just surprised, that's all. It's been a long time since I've seen anyone other than you. Not that you aren't lovely to look at, I assure you.”

“And Jack,” she presses. It's a little cruel of her, but this game has gone on for long enough. “I imagine that Jack didn't let you have many visitors, did he?”

He meets her gaze evenly. There's steel in his eyes, though, and she knows that he's perfectly aware what she's doing. “He was not a very good host, no. Why? Are you looking for tips on entertaining? I can tell you right now that it's a hopelessly lost cause.”

She clenches her jaw, staring back at him. “Well, I'm certain that I can't be nearly as awful as Jack,” she says, biting out each word with awful precision. “It's not like I haven't seen the marks on you, Jacob. I know what he did.”

“Of course you do,” he says so mildly that it instantly arouses suspicion. “I forgot that you know everything. My mistake, Dame Frye.”

The words are on the tip of her tongue: fiery and reactive, something to incite a reaction. And then Jacob would fire back, and there would be that familiar banter that dances the fine line between spat and fight. It would be normal and sane, something they've always done and will do a thousand times again. And at the same time, it would also be a horrific lie. He's _playing_ her, and he's doing it magnificently, she realizes.

No. This, whatever it is, will have to be a longer game than that.

“My mistake,” she says instead, pitching her voice low. “I don't. Jacob, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

If she wasn't watching him so carefully, she might have missed it. There's a fraction of a second where his face twists, and she wonders if it's in pain or anger. But then it's gone, replaced with a wry smile and a rueful shrug. “It's all right,” he says, turning back to the window. “It doesn't matter.”

And that, she thinks, may just be the bleak truth of the matter.

The rest of the carriage ride passes in silence. It's all too soon as they draw up in front of the townhouse, and she can hear Jacob suck in a quiet breath as the carriage rolls to a stop. “Jacob,” she begins, but he shakes his head.

“I'm fine,” he tells her for what feels like the umpteenth time. “I'm sure the others will be fine, too.”

 _Will be_. Not _are_. What event is he waiting for, hanging still in suspense?

He pushes open the carriage door and steps out, cane in hand. His ankle is wrapped in a cast, but it doesn't seem to slow him down as he heads to the door. She follows, stopping only to pay the driver before she follows Jacob to the door. He hasn't knocked yet, standing seemingly frozen in front of the door. She waits silently behind him, her hands resolutely folded in front of her. She won't be the one to do this. He has to be the one to ring the damn doorbell. If he really thinks that he's ready, if he really thinks that he wants to do it, but until then she won't be the one to push him to—

He rings the damn doorbell.

There seems to be an eternity of waiting, and then the door swings open and the air fills with shouting, laughing. Arjun first, and then a thundering down the steps as Edward and Andrew follow. They tug Jacob into the house, and Evie follows in their wake, closing the door behind her. She watches as Jacob speaks with his Assassins, reassuring them that he's alive even as they scrutinize him for themselves, and there's a lump in her throat that she can't quite articulate. This was the right decision, she thinks fiercely. This is what Jacob needs, to be home with his family, and he _is_ ready for this. He must be, with the way his head is held up high, his voice firm and eyes clear.

She wants to believe that so badly.

He turns to her. He's saying something, she realizes, and she forces herself to focus. “—suppose I don't need to introduce you all, then.”

She clears her throat. “No,” she says as calmly as she can. “Sorry for stealing your thunder.”

He gives her a brief smile. “You're forgiven,“ he says. He turns back to the men, his expression quickly sobering up. There's a moment of silence that seems to hang heavily in the air, and then he says, “It's been a while, hasn't it. I'm sorry for that."

With those words, the jovial atmosphere seems to evaporate as if it never was. The men shuffle from foot to foot: Andrew's expression turns severe. Edward fiddles nervously with his spectacles. Arjun looks down, hands twisting. Jacob continues to speak, his voice quiet but authoritative. “Many things have changed, now, for all of us," he says. "We've lost so very much, and we can never replace the women or what they brought to this Brotherhood. Not Katey, not Lizzie. Not Annie, Mary Jane, Mary Ann. They're all gone to us now, and that is a burden we have to bear for the rest of our days."

He swallows. She watches him, her own heart aching. “But as much as it may tempt us, we cannot let grief hold us,” he says somberly. “There are a thousand and one affairs to attend to, and we cannot sit paralyzed while Whitechapel falls apart. No, not _falling_ —Whitechapel has already fallen to crime and squalor, and that cannot be allowed to continue. As Assassins, we have a duty. To London, to the Brotherhood. To all those who have died.”

He puts a hand on Andrew's shoulder now, a wordless declaration of both support and authority. “I've missed much in the past two months,” he says. His voice is soft, but there's no question that it captures the room and all their attention. “And I will still need some time before I am fully recovered. London will need all of you now more than ever if we are to preserve the Brotherhood that we have built. Can I rely on you, then?”

This is Jacob as a leader, she thinks. Not just as a gang leader, but as a mentor of principle and strength. She watches emotions play across the faces of the other men, and she wonders if they see what she sees. “Of course,” Andrew says, and he's echoed almost immediately by Edward and Arjun. “As if I'd run away from this sort of challenge,” Andrew says gruffly.

“I've looked into the accounts that Catherine and Elizabeth left behind,” Edward adds quietly. “They're not unmanageable. I'm not familiar with a few of Catherine's contacts, particularly the ones in France, but you might recognize them. Or Emmett might, perhaps.”

“Emmett should. If not, I'm sure our French brothers will aid us,” Jacob says with a nod. There's only the bare moment of hesitation before he says, “What about Nellie? Have you heard from her?”

Evie doesn't miss the brief look that Andrew gives her, but she keeps her expression blank. “Yes, she came by yesterday,” Andrew says. “Luther's been sniffing around their place. Apparently, he's managed to buy off Russelin's muscle, enough that they're patrolling the Farthing and Adelbrook, too. Nellie told us that all the girls are getting incredibly nervous.”

"We'll have to change that. So Elise has finally been bought? I wonder if Luther knows what he's getting into. Elise has always been notoriously mercenary,” Jacob says, sounding thoughtful. “Have you managed to get in contact with Saundra?” A pause. “She is still alive. Yes?”

“I haven't spoken to her directly, but the others told me that she's still alive. Just busy,” Arjun pipes up. “The street children are harassed just as much as the Unfortunates these days. Russelin's been telling the Rooks to chase them off if they get too close.”

“Damn. All right,” Jacob says. He clears his throat. “Clearly, we need to discuss this further. I'll go upstairs and change into something more comfortable. We'll reconvene in ten minutes, then.”

He straightens, and it's only with that movement that she realizes that how much he's been leaning on his cane this whole time. His fingers are clenched tight around the handle, and if it weren't for the overlarge clothing, she thinks that the shaking of his arm would be visible. He makes his way towards the stairs, and she realizes with a sinking feeling that Jacob's room must be on the second floor. Closest to the roof, to freedom. It makes perfect sense when in perfect health, but with his ankle broken and myriad other wounds aside, it won't be a pretty journey in the least.

She itches to jump forward and offer her arm for support, but she can't. Not in front of these men, not when Jacob's struggling so hard to take charge once more. But that doesn't mean that she has to stand aside and watch them watch, so she turns to them now. “There's one thing I would like to ask,” she says. She puts a hand on Andrew's shoulder and leads him into the sitting room away from the stairs, trusting the others to follow. “Well, one of many. I met with Paul and Clara yesterday. Paul spoke to me a little about Luther, and he let loose some interesting tidbits about how Luther regards shipping rights on the Thames...”

Andrew's certainly interested enough to hear about the laws that Luther is almost certainly violating, and while they're not acquainted with Abberline, they can intelligibly discuss the ways that they can turn the police to their advantage. She keeps them engaged in conversation, all the while keeping a subtle eye turned with eagle vision towards the walls and ceiling. Jacob's making his way up the stairs, slow and tortuous. He's bracing one hand against the wall for support as he walks down the hall. He's at what must be his door. And he's...stopped. He's sliding down to sit against it, head held in his hands.

At the next break in the conversation, she makes some excuse about wanting to get air. The others no doubt see right through it, but they respect the illusion. She heads up the stairs as quietly as she can, rounding the corner with some trepidation. Jacob doesn't look up as she approaches, even though he must surely sense her presence.

She sits down next to him. There's a long, long moment before he finally pulls his hands away from his face, but he still doesn't look at her. “I forgot that I locked it,” he says, and to his credit, his voice is quite even. “I don't have lockpicks. Or the key.”

“All right,” she says. “I have a set on me. Think your lock presents a challenge to your old sister?”

There's a flash of something in his eyes, and without a word being exchanged, she knows it to be gratitude. “If you can,” he says. “Let's see if India has rusted your skills.”

It's a weak excuse, a paper-thin charade. Much like this whole morning has been, really. But she doesn't say any of this, rolling her eyes theatrically instead as she gets up to pick the lock. It's simple enough, but she drags it out for a minute or two longer than strictly necessary. “There,” she says as it clicks open. “You really must get a better lock.”

“Oh, I forgot. I'll put that right on my list,” he says, and his smile contains just the right amount of exasperated fondness. She casually holds out a hand for him to brace on as he stands up, and she hands him his cane from the ground. Neither of them say a word as he hobbles through the door.

In a way, Jacob's room reminds her rather of Father's. There's the big mahogany desk piled high with papers. There are two bookshelves against a wall, both stacked messily with any number of tomes. What's less similar is the bed, the covers thrown carelessly aside. The wardrobe sits with its door ajar, and there's a satchel tossed onto the floor, a few coins spilling out. All a testament to Jacob's frame of mind when he was last here, before he moved into his lodgings at Whitechapel. He must have been frantic.

“Hello, Miss Nosy,” he says now, catching her attention. “Yes, I know the room's atrocious. Don't send me to bed without any supper, please.”

He sounds amused, but all the best lies in the world can't mask the weariness in his voice. She shrugs. “If you're expecting to shock me, I've seen worse. Most of it from our adolescence, if I recall correctly.”

“Ha. Very funny,” he says. He's leaning against the bed, bracing himself between the cane and the backboard for support. They both stand there for a moment in a frozen tableau, and the realization hits. He's waiting for her to leave.

The revelation stings. He's _still_ trying to hide from her for whatever godforsaken reason. She breathes in, out. With a massive effort, she resists the urge to—well, either hug him, throttle him, or both.

“I'd best get downstairs. The tea's getting cold,” she says as brightly as she can.

“Arjun does make wonderful tea. Wasting it would be a bloody crime against Queen and country,” he says agreeably.

She smiles at him, making it as wide and pleasant as she can. It's patently fake. He knows it, she knows it, they both know that the other knows. So. The damn game continues, wearisome as it is for all.

She turns, heading back down the stairs. Her thoughts circle in her head, darting from one point to the next. So, all right. Perhaps _game_ is putting it a little too lightly, she thinks. It's more complex than that; it's a set of lies interwoven in a mess of tangled messes. She's been more than guilty of them herself today. And there's something to be said for lies, really. They're not all bad. Strangely enough, there's even a basic dignity they offer.

At times like these, it seems more vital than ever.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole idea of removing timestamps was so I could do some timeskips in the story, and uh...thus far, that hasn't happened. Whoo. We're still on the same day as previous chapters. I have gone back and changed some dates, though. The first couple chapters now take place over about two weeks, allowing more time for physical recovery at the very least.
> 
> There is actual Plot in this chapter. I'm very confused as to how it got there.

And so, to business.

Jacob, when he reappears, looks composed and in control. It's not a perfect picture, but that's part of the beauty of it—no one would _believe_ perfection, not at this point, and so the final result contains just enough weariness to be real yet not enough to discredit his command. She bites the inside of her cheek and refrains from commenting, watching instead as Jacob sorts out the myriad threads of trouble with calm efficiency. There are the contractors in France, and Catherine's death means that two of the usual supply lines have ceased to operate. There are the Rooks, which resemble the Rooks of 1868 in name only. And then there are the Unfortunates. Even after Jack's death, they still live in terror.

The problem, of course, isn't just that of Lady Owers. Jack may be dead, but no one outside of the room other than Abberline knows that, and revealing the full truth of who he was would be disastrous. “We don't have to tell _everyone_ ,” Edward argues. “But Nellie and the others look over their shoulders constantly. It's bad enough with Luther and his men bullying them; they shouldn't have to fear a specter as well.”

“I'm sure that the more astute among them already suspect the truth,” Jacob says, rubbing a palm over his face. “Jack was an Assassin long enough to have made his mark, even before the murders.” His eyes are very distant for a moment. “But you're right. They deserve to know that they're safe, at least.”

“So have it come from someone else. The presses, perhaps,” Evie interjects. Jacob looks sharply at her, a furrow appearing between his brows. “Weaversbrook can publish some sort of rumor or secondhand letter declaring the death of the Ripper. It won't be a full confirmation, but it will be enough to sow some seeds that will hopefully put their minds to rest.”

“Weaversbrook has done nothing but incite the masses with his constant publishing of the Ripper letters,” Jacob says. There's a note of irritation in his voice. “What makes you think that he'll agree to talk to you, much less help?”

She looks squarely at him. “I saved his son,” she says as calmly as she can. “He was held prisoner by Jack's men in exchange for his father's cooperation. I'd say that warrants a favor or two.”

There's a split-second where Jacob's expression spasms, open and vulnerable in shock. It's gone in the blink of an eye. “All right,” he says, all business again. “Edward, draft a letter for the presses, please. And as for Elise and Luther: Andrew, arrange a meeting with Russelin. Let's see what price Luther has paid for her loyalty. Arjun, see if you can get in contact with Saundra. I'll have to speak with Nellie in person, get a better idea of what's going on...”

She muses on that irritation as the meeting winds to a close. “Perfect Evie”, he'd called her just a few days ago. Is this related, then, to that particular problem? Whatever cheery demeanor Jacob may affecting, somehow she doubts that all his demons have been scourged away in a single night. She watches as the men rise, setting off to their appointed tasks. Jacob remains sitting after the three of them have left, and his jaw is tight with what she can only describe as tension.

“Jacob,” she says quietly. He doesn't look at her. She debates silently for a moment, wondering if she should bring it up. Just a few days ago, his emotions had been laid bare in front of her. Now, though—in a space of a single night, all that seems to have changed. He's closed off to her, or least trying his damnest to make it so.

She sighs. He twitches slightly at the sound. “Where do you need me?” she asks, spreading her hands. “I'm here to help.”

His hands are knotted in his lap, the bandage conspicuous on his broken fingers. It occurs to her suddenly that there's no gauntlet on his arm. Of course there wouldn't be. Jack probably took it, and if they're lucky, he'll have thrown it into the Thames instead of gifting it to one of his subordinates. If it's still anything like her own, there will be a blade, rope launcher, and darts built into it. It's been upgraded beyond the Assassin standard, built specially just for them.

Finding another one like it won't be easy, if it can be done at all.

“Find Nellie,” Jacob says. She looks up at his face, startled. “I need to talk to her. To see if she's all right.” He swallows. “I would arrange to meet somewhere else, but I don't think I can...” He waves a hand in a vague motion. “I would appreciate if you asked her to come here.”

The last sentence is stiffly formal. She stands up, holding back another sigh. “All right,” she says. “I'll go find her.”

He nods. “Thank you,” he says. His voice is quiet and distant. “I'll be in my room.”

He stands up slowly, both hands on the cane for support. “Jacob,” she begins. He freezes. “What's going on?” she asks, and it feels like an eerie reprise of just this morning. “Is something wrong?”

She feels silly as soon as the words come out of her mouth. Of course something is wrong. Everything's wrong, no matter what face Jacob chooses to present to the world. The sheer wrongness of it all is starting to claw under her skin, a subtle pressure building up until—well. She doesn't really want to find out what might happen.

On the bright side, he does finally look at her. He's smiling, which is maddening, but it's rueful and weary enough that she can forgive it. Or is that just another part of his act that she's buying into? “I think that if I started answering, I'd never stop,” he says. “But for now, I'd just like to get through the day.”

There's a plea in that one. One day at a time, he's saying. All right, fair enough.

Turning away, she heads for the door.

* * *

It's late afternoon by the time she actually finds Nellie. She's talking with a group of other women, and by their dress, they're Unfortunates as well. Nellie's eyes widen as Evie approaches, and she quickly pulls Evie into a private room. “Miss Evie,” she says. “You shouldn't be here. It's not safe.”

Not safe, Evie thinks with some irony. “I'm more worried about you, Nellie,” she says. “Have you seen more of Luther's men?”

Nellie's eyes dart about the room. “Had one as a client last night,” she says, lowering her voice. “He asked quite a lot of questions about who's running things now. Lady Owers had ledgers in her office that have gone missing, and Luther's not pleased about it.” She takes a breath. “And he asked about you as well. Well, not _you_ specifically, miss, but about the Assassins.”

Evie looks over Nellie carefully. She doesn't look bruised, but somehow, Evie doubts that the man was gentle in his questioning. “What about you? Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

Nellie shrugs. “It was no worse than usual,” she says, and the answer is ominous if a little cryptic. “I don't think they know who I am. We're all just whores to them.” The word is an ugly one, but Nellie voices it casually, as if she hears it every day. Which, depressingly enough, she probably does. “I've been talking to some of the other girls. Miss Roman's nothing without Lady O's money, and she looks to be fleeing for the hills any day now. We've been talking about moving out once our leases are up at the end of the year.” She bites her lip. “The question is to where, and if Luther's men will continue to chase us. I don't think they will, but we don't know.”

That's not a bad idea, Evie thinks. They can move away from Luther's patch of power to a place where Assassin-allied gangs can protect them. She'll have to ask Edward for the accounts, but perhaps the Brotherhood can help finance the move. But that doesn't solve the overarching problem, which is Luther's search for Owers' books. “Do you know what's in the ledgers?” she asks. “Why would Luther want them so much?”

“Lady O kept a list of all of the people she blackmailed. Their secrets, too, or so I've heard. Lots of names in there, big names who would no doubt pay a pretty penny to keep silent.” She wraps her arms around herself, a shiver running through her. “And I know that there's a list of us in a red ledger. A list of all the women who've ever worked for her and who we've served. Names and places. We could move and try to hide, but...”

But that would never erase the fear, never stop them from looking over their shoulders. Evie thinks back to that day in Owers' mansion. She'd taken Thomas Owers as bait, used him to get to Lady Owers and kill her. And then after that, Jack had come in, massacred them all, and done...what? with the records? Had he just left them there for Abberline to find? Sold them, burnt them, drowned them in the Thames?

She makes a note to ask Abberline about the case. In the meantime, she turns to Nellie. “Nellie,” she says. “It will be in the papers very soon, but the Ripper is dead.” Nellie's eyes go wide, and it's only a curt nod of Evie's head that cuts her off. “Shh. You know why it must be kept secret, don't you?”

“Yes,” Nellie breathes. “But, miss—he's dead. He's gone. Truly? Did you kill him? Did you watch him die for real?”

“With my own blade,” Evie promises her, and Nellie lets out something that's half-sob, half-scream. “Wait for the letter to be published, then spread the rumor as much as you can. The Unfortunates are safe from the Ripper at least, I promise you that.”

Nellie nods vigorously. “Yes,” she says, her voice still a whisper but barely so. “I will. Thank you, Miss Evie, this means more than you know.”

I think I do know, Evie thinks grimly, but she doesn't say that out loud. “Also, Jacob wants to see you,” she says. Nellie's reaction is different, her lips parting in a soft 'o' that she quickly hides with her hand. Interesting. “He's at the townhouse in his room. Do you think you can make it today?”

Nellie nods quickly. “Yes, miss,” she says. She looks around, her eyes sweeping the room. “I can leave now, actually. Would you mind if I rode with you back to the townhouse? I just need to get my things.”

“Of course not,” Evie says, only slightly surprised. “Take your time. I'll arrange a carriage outside.”

She leaves Nellie to pack, heading outside and hailing a cab. Nellie appears less than five minutes later, out of breath and carrying an oversized satchel slung over her shoulder. “Thank you, miss,” she says as Evie beckons her into the cab.

“Not at all,” Evie says. She watches as Nellie sets the bag down next to her—from the way she handles it, there's something precious inside. Evie considers asking for a brief moment before setting the idea aside. There are some things that are meant to be private, and she suspects that this is likely one of them.

Instead, she passes the ride asking Nellie more about herself. Nellie is surprisingly well-informed: she knows of the Rooks, of the Whitechapel Unfortunates, and of the Assassins. Faint wisps of an idea begin to form in Evie's mind, but it's too early to say anything yet. She keeps the questioning tied firmly to the present as much as possible, dabbling only slightly into the past.

“He asked me to send the letter to you,” Nellie tells her as they near the townhouse, and Evie raises an eyebrow in surprise. “That night when—when Katey and Lizzie died. He gave me some money and a letter, and he told me to leave Whitechapel for my own safety. When he disappeared later that night, I thought I'd never see him again.”

“And so you mailed the letter to me,” Evie says softly. “But you stayed in Whitechapel. Why?”

Nellie shrugs. “I couldn't leave,” she says simply. Ducking her head, she seems disinclined to say more. Evie leaves it at that as the carriage draws to a stop, opening the door and getting out. Nellie wraps her shawl tight about herself, her face pale and drawn as she enters the townhouse.

“He's in his room,” Evie tells her, and Nellie nods, heading unerringly upstairs. 

Evie carefully doesn't watch and follow Nellie's path. She keeps her vision strictly to that of the everyday as she heads into the study, resisting the temptation to peek. Andrew is sitting at a desk, his head bent over some papers. He looks up as she enters. “Hello, Miss Frye,” he says.

“Mr. Rochester,” she acknowledges. “May I borrow the telephone?”

He nods, his eyes on her. She picks up the receiver and dials Scotland Yard, halfway wondering if anyone will answer. Or, if someone does, if Abberline will even be there. To the former, her question is answered as it picks up two rings in. “Scotland Yard,” a voice says, gruff and harried.

“Good evening. I'm looking for Inspector Abberline,” she says politely.

“Who is this?”

“Tell him this is Evie Frye,” she says. “He'll know who I am.”

There's not so much an acknowledgement as a grunt. There's dead silence for a few minutes, long enough that Evie's wondering if he's hung up on her. Abberline's voice comes onto the line eventually, though, and he sounds exhausted even over the gritty connection. “Miss Frye,” he says in greeting.

“Mr. Abberline,” she says. “I have a question for you.”

“I may not have an answer,” he replies. “What is it?”

“Olwyn Owers,” she says. “The massacre at Owers mansion. Did your men find a cache of papers in Owers' office?”

“My men found a lot of things, Miss Frye,” he says, sounding curt. “Blood and bodies being chief among them. You're going to have to be more specific.”

“Records,” she says. “A red ledger, perhaps, with names and addresses. Women's names, primarily.”

She can hear him heave a gusty sigh, the sound coming across as a crackle of static. “Miss Frye, the evidence rooms are overflowing with memorabilia from the Ripper's murders here in London,” he says, his voice flat. “If you want these records of yours, you will have to come down and scrounge for them yourself.”

“Is tomorrow a good time?” she asks. “Sometime in the morning, perhaps?”

Another sigh. “We're very busy. I can try to make a time sometime next week,” he says tersely. “Now. Is there anything else?”

She worries at her lip. “How is the investigation going?” she asks carefully. “Are your men still searching for the Ripper?”

Abberline's silent for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is cautious. “We're patrolling the streets,” he says, sounding like he's considering each word carefully. “We're doing what we can, Evie.”

 _Evie_ , not Miss Frye. He must not be alone in the room, she thinks, and she closes her eyes in gratitude that he's at least trying to uphold their secret. “There may be a letter in the papers in a few days, Mr. Abberline,” she says. “A letter that may suggest that the Ripper is dead. Perhaps Scotland Yard can breathe a little easier if the wrath of the public is less...vitriolic.”

“I'm not entirely sure that's possible at this point,” Abberline mutters. “Dare I ask the specifics?”

“I'll bring a copy with me tomorrow,” she offers. “And you may revise it if you wish.”

“Clever,” he says, sounding monumentally dry. “Fine. Tomorrow morning, ten o' clock. Don't be late.”

“Thank you, Frederick,” she says, and it's as heartfelt as she can make it. She hears him grunt, and then the line goes dead. Evie hangs up the receiver carefully, drumming her fingers on the table as she thinks. If the ledger is indeed within Abberline's cache of evidence, she can destroy it with no one the wiser. Same goes for the blackmail records. Now, she doubts that Luther will be very satisfied with that, but he'll just have to live with the disappointment. They are Assassins for a reason, and if he continues to bully the Unfortunates, he will find out _why_ very soon.

“Cooking up a scheme, Miss Frye?”

She looks at Andrew, startled out of her train of thought. He's turned in his chair to face her, twirling his pen idly between callused fingers. “You look a little like Jacob when you're thinking,” he says, looking wry. “I mean, you've got the same look. A bit dreamy and terrifying all at once, as it were.”

“I do, do I?” she murmurs. “Well, we learned from the best, that being each other.” They were so close once in the days before London, tied together by camaraderie and competition in equal measure. Even after London, in those two years after Starrick's defeat, they'd been bonded together by shared goals and shared victory. But then she'd moved to India, and there were only letters to keep them together. As often as she tried to write, they may have not been enough. Not if he feels like he still must hide from her for whatever godforsaken reason, not if she feels like he's slipping away even as they—

She clears her throat. Enough with maudlin reminiscence, she thinks, almost angry with herself. This isn't the time for that. Andrew's still watching her, and she studies him now in an effort to distract herself. There's a gauntlet on his arm, she thinks inanely, and then she circles around the thought for a second pass. “May I?” she asks, pointing at it.

He looks down at it for a moment before holding out his arm to her, letting her trace the rough leather. It's not as complex as her own. There's a blade on it and a rope launcher, but no darts to be seen. Still, that's two out of three, which is better than nothing. “Did Jacob commission this?” she asks.

“He did indeed,” Andrew says. “The Crawley lads sent a few over. He had one of Catherine's contacts fix them up with the launcher. We've still got one or two in the supply cache, I think.” He pauses. “Edward has his, although he never wears it. Arjun—well, he's too young yet to bear one. He'd only started this past year.”

“All right,” she says softly. It's not a perfect solution—Jacob will have to relearn how to fight with a gauntlet, and no doubt he'll have to get used to the different weight and balance. But there's the physical aspect of it solved, at least, but the mental is far thornier. She considers for a moment whether or not to ask Andrew's opinion before pushing that thought aside. She'll respect Jacob's mask for now, even if she loathes the motivations behind it.

She steps back, letting Andrew's arm drop. “Nellie's upstairs with Jacob,” she says nonchalantly.

He shrugs. “She does that,” he says, sounding unbothered.

Does she, now. “She had a few ideas about the situation in Whitechapel,” Evie says, filing that away for later. “They've been talking about moving away, perhaps to lodgings that are more hospitable. Are there properties in Whitechapel near loyalist territory where they can be protected?”

“Hmm. Maybe,” Andrew says. He leans forward to grab a map, spreading it out and circling locations in charcoal. There's Henry's old shop in Whitechapel, of course. There's a secondary stake in a factory and several other small businesses. Nothing ideal, but perhaps if they resold some properties, moved some money around…

They talk for another hour or so, the conversation eventually seguing into the upcoming meeting with Elise Russelin that Andrew's arranged for Sunday. The implication seems to be that Jacob's going to be there in person, which she has her doubts about. All the posturing in the world can't hide the fact that Jacob's lost nearly a quarter of his former weight and nearly all of his physical strength.

At the chime of six, Andrew rises, offering to make dinner. She accepts, puttering around the study in the meantime. It's at the sound of footsteps on the stairs that draws her out, and she walks into the hallway to see Jacob and Nellie standing at the foot of the steps. They're not quite touching, but they're close. “All right,” he's saying, his voice low. “Stay safe, Nellie.”

“Of course,” Nellie says. Her smile is strained as she steps away. “You as well, Jacob.”

Evie can't see Jacob's expression from this angle. She watches silently as Nellie leaves, Jacob closing the door behind her. He lingers at the doorway for a moment, no doubt gazing distantly through the glass. Watching Nellie go, perhaps? Or trapped in another thought, one of Jack in the dark?

He turns finally, startling a little at the sight of her. She frowns inwardly, surprised at his surprise. It's not like him to be caught off guard. They're both Assassins born and bred, and they've always been taught to keep a tight eye on their surroundings. Awareness is key. Lack of it can get you killed, can get your team killed, can get you—

—thrown into a prison to rot for weeks on end with only nightmares for company, perhaps.

Oh, she thinks.

“Evie,” Jacob says. His voice is rough. “How long have you been there?”

Pity, she thinks, and she hates herself for it. “I just arrived,” she tells him. “Who was that at the door?”

If he knows that she's lying, he doesn't show it. “Just telling Nellie goodbye,” he says.

“She seems like a very intelligent young woman,” Evie says as gently as she can.

“High praise,” Jacob says. His expression is more of a grimace than a proper smile. “You're thinking things, aren't you?”

“That's what I do,” she says peaceably. “But in this case? No. And I would never ask.”

He studies her for a moment, his jaw set. Abruptly, though, the tension seems to leech out of him. She watches with some concern as he raises a hand to scrub at his eyes, a small, almost helpless laugh escaping. What is he thinking? She's been wanting to shake his thoughts out of his head this entire damn day, and she's never wanted that power so badly as now. It's maddening to not know her twin, and she aches with the loss.

He wavers a little, his feet shifting in an attempt to regain his balance. Instinctively, she steps forward to support him, one hand looping around his shoulders and the other on his arm, ready to take his weight. He freezes at her touch, and it seems to take an eternity before he relaxes again. Hazel eyes fix on her own blue ones before skittering away. For fear of what, she doesn't know.

“Is that dinner I smell?” he says, sounding forcedly casual.

She holds back a sigh. “Yes,” she says. “Mr. Rochester is cooking.”

“Delightful,” he says. “Dinner sounds wonderful.”

“Then bed?”

“I'm not quite into you that way, Evie,” he drawls. It's perhaps one of the weakest mockeries of a joke that he's ever made, and he still refuses to look her in the eye. She shakes him a little, and she can see the moment when he decides that it's not worth the fight. “Fine. Bed.”

“I'm staying here tonight,” she says. It's a declaration; not quite a challenge, but close. “And for every night thereafter.”

“Of course you are,” he says, and it's almost dismissive, the way he says it. He pulls away from her, or at least tries to. She could hold him, she thinks. She doubts that he would want to attract the others' attention to a fight, and he doesn't have the strength to fight her. Physically, at least.

The thought is like a knife in the ribs. No. Not when Jack's stripped him bare already. She won't be like Jack.

Reluctantly, she steps away from Jacob, letting him go.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will have an actual timeskip and it will be awesome. Until then, though, there is plot, Abberline, and of course, the usual helping of Sibling Angst. Yay!

Ten o' clock, Scotland Yard.

Evie makes it a point to be late as little as possible, and today is no exception. If nothing else, at least Abberline is equally prompt. It's either that or he hasn't gone home at all, and from the looks of it, it's probably the latter. He's sitting behind his desk as she walks into his office, and for a moment she stands looking around in bemusement. If she'd thought his office to be cluttered before, it's nothing compared to the chaos that fills the room now.

“Inspector Abberline,” she says politely as he looks up. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and there's a smudge of ink on his nose. “Am I interrupting at a bad time?”

“The times are always bad these days, Miss Frye,” he says, but he does push away the form he's working on. “I've learned to be content with merely 'bad' as opposed to 'absolutely abysmal.'”

“Ah,” she says. “I know that feeling. Things have been somewhat...complex since we last met, Inspector.”

“Hmm,” he says. He sounds idly curious, but they both know that he's anything but. “Things that I should know about?”

For only an instant, she ponders the existential despair with which she could answer that question. Turning, she closes the door behind her, and she turns back in time to see Abberline raise an eyebrow. She reaches into her jacket and pulls out an unsealed envelope, placing it on his desk. “Well, for starters, here is the letter for the presses,” she says. “Concerning new rumors about the Ripper's demise. There is an associate in the press who will print it favorably.”

Abberline studies the envelope for a moment before opening it and sliding the letter out. Evie read it last night, and she can almost recite the lines of Edward's crisp, clear prose. It's a written account of the Ripper's demise by an anonymous witness, and it's a masterful confluence of rumors with just enough fact to make it seem plausible. She watches as Abberline's eyes move across the lines, waiting patiently as he makes it to the end.

He sets it back down on the desk. “This isn't your handwriting,” he states matter-of-factly. “And it's not Jacob's either. Neither of you wrote it.”

“No,” she agrees. “One of our other associates did.”

“Associates. You mean Assassins?”

“Something like that,” she says carefully. “An old acquaintance.”

“You seem to have far too many of those,” he says. He doesn't sound hostile, exactly, but nor is his tone welcoming. “So you're here with this,” he adds, gesturing at the letter. “And in exchange, you want access to the evidence from the Owers case.”

“I wouldn't think of it as being an exchange, Inspector,” she says. “The letter will be published regardless of our conversation here today. The Owers evidence is another matter entirely.”

“Hmm. And that matter being?” he asks. His hands are folded together, and he looks almost relaxed. She knows better to believe it, though, not with his eyes watching her like a hawk, no doubt scrutinizing her every reaction. “Does this have to do with the Unfortunates, perhaps? A little matter of the Thames River gangs and their loyalty? Wait, don't say anything. Does the name _Maurice Luther_ ring any bells for you?”

She's very careful to keep her expression calm. “And why would you think that, Inspector?” she asks mildly.

He gives her a small, grim smile. “I'm not stupid, Miss Frye,” he says. “And I'm not fond of surprises, either. Now, I won't ask you to lay your soul bare, but it would be helpful if you'd at least pretend the courtesy of communication. I don't appreciate being used and discarded as if I'm your dogsbody.”

The words are sharp, but the tone is level, spoken with more authority than threat. For all the weapons she carries, she knows that this is his territory, his hand to play. Even if she were to kill him—which she could never in good conscience do—the Assassins have so much more to lose in this game.

Careful, Evie.

“How much did Jacob ever tell you?” she asks after a moment of internal debate. “Let's start from there.”

Abberline lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. “Whenever and whatever was convenient for him,” he says, sounding irritated. “The London Met learned a relationship of, shall we say, polite distance. But I think we can safely say that circumstances are no longer the same. I've paid you a favor, Miss Frye, and a substantial one at that. And here you are, asking even more.”

“You have, and we are,” she says, inclining her head. “Shall I induct you as an Assassin, then?” The idea piques her interest a little, even if it's only spoken in half-jest. Frederick Abberline as an Assassin: what sort would he be, with his strong adherence to law and morality?

He snorts, dashing the idea to pieces. It's ridiculous to mourn the remains of half-formed idea, and she pushes it aside. “I don't think that I could do all the running and jumping you lot favor. No, that's not the life for me,” he says. "I've no desire to join your secret order. At this point, Miss Frye, answers will suffice. I've had very few of those lately, and I treasure each one.” He leans forward. “So if you want my help, this is how it's going to go. You tell me what's going on, and I'll decide what to do from there. Do we have an accord?”

It's not exactly a fair bargain, but then again, perhaps things have been unfair for too long. They need the police, she thinks. If not for their plans for the Unfortunates, then for the gangs or to smooth the way with the contractors. They've always needed them, which is why Henry was so careful to introduce them early on. And—well. If she's going to be entirely honest, Abberline's had the patience of a saint to not throw them all in jail thus far, or at least make an attempt to do so.

“Fine,” she says. “What do you want to know?”

There's no gloating at the concession, not that she would have expected any from him. Just brisk acknowledgement, and then an immediate jump to the first question. “Let's start with the obvious,” he says. “Why do you need access to the Owers evidence?”

“There are two books of evidence I'm looking for,” she says, measuring her words carefully. “One that contains the addresses and names of the Unfortunates. If the wrong people get their hands on that, the women of the streets will always be living in fear. It must be destroyed, Inspector. The second is a blackmail ledger maintained by Owers.”

“Ah. Blackmail?” he asks, his eyes sharp. “Blackmail about whom, exactly?”

“Rich clients of the Unfortunates, met often at Owers' Cannibal Parties,” Evie says, and she knows even as she says it that the answer opens up a rabbit hole of its own. And sure enough, Abberline pounces on it, and the entire sorry affair is sure to follow: Olwyn Owers and her tight-fisted control of London's prostitution rings; the vacuum of power left by her death and the men clamoring to take her place; the Rooks, splintered and broken free of Assassin control.

It feels unpleasantly close to a betrayal. Should she _really_ be telling him this? she wonders. She wouldn't call it an interrogation, not really: she's not in handcuffs, for one, and Abberline maintains a rigid courtesy throughout. But it does feel related to one as the questioning winds on, the clock ticking from ten to eleven to noon. Twenty years ago, they kept the police at arm's length, a tradition that Jacob has undoubtedly continued. And isn't that the way it should be? It's always been an Assassin tradition to work in the dark, and to use the police for their own ends.

(When put that way, it does sound a little dubious, doesn't it.)

This can't possibly be the wrong choice, she thinks. Abberline's proven himself to be an ally. And, well, London stands for nothing if not change, doesn't it? Certainly Jack has forced their hand in that, and they will not succeed in this without the cooperation of the police.

It's a bit of a weak justification, but she has to believe that it's right.

Her throat is dry by the time Abberline leans back in his chair, twirling his pen idly between ink-stained fingers. He's looking up at the ceiling, clearly lost in thought. She looks around at the mess of the room, looking for a water pitcher or something of the sort. There's one perched precariously on a shelf, and she heads over to it without much hope. Unsurprisingly, it's empty.

“There's water outside,” Abberline says from behind her, his voice as rough as hers feels. “I'll have a constable bring some in.”

“I would appreciate that,” she says, setting the pitcher back down. She sits back in her seat, watching in silence as Abberline pushes himself up from his chair and heads for the door. There's a murmured conversation, and then he comes back with a cup of water. She sips from it, feeling the cool water flow down her throat. It's quite nice.

It's hardly time to relax, though, not with Abberline watching her with dark, hooded eyes. She waits, poised on the edge of her seat for yet another question. When he speaks again, though, it's not quite what she expected. “Are you free this afternoon, Miss Frye?” he asks as she holds the cup in between her palms, rolling the pottery back and forth. “I understand I've taken up quite a lot of your time.”

She raises an eyebrow in ironic surprise. “It's a little late to be asking that question, Inspector,” she says. Her voice is raspy, and she clears her throat. “But yes. I am free. Have you a verdict, or shall I hang in suspense forever?”

“Much as I've done for twenty years, then?” he returns, his tone deadpan.

It's enough that startles a little laugh out of her, and the building tension in the air eases just a little bit. “A debt we've yet to pay, it seems,” she says. “Still unsatisfied?”

“I'm a detective. I'm never satisfied until all the answers are free.” He pauses. “But I'd say it's adequate for now, Miss Frye.”

“Have I passed the test?” she asks simply.

“ _Test_ implies that there's an ending to this mess, and that passing resolves all,” he says, waving a hand. She tracks the motion with a covert eye, taking in the surroundings once more. Papers piled high, dirty cups stacked on a shelf, what looks like a half-eaten doughnut on the desk, his jacket thrown carelessly over a chair. “If only it were that simple, Miss Frye.”

“No,” she says softly. “It isn't, is it.”

“Indeed.” He pauses. “But as to my part in this place: if you wish, the Owers archive will be open for you this afternoon. There's quite a lot of it, so it may take a while. Do you want assistance?”

A little knot of tension that she hadn't known that she was carrying around loosens in the pit of her stomach. It's not exactly a pledge of eternal support, but it's something, and she'll take that for what it's worth. “No,” she says. “Just access will be enough. Thank you, Inspector.”

He nods, acknowledging her thanks. It's more than he'd allowed her to do before, she thinks, recalling back to their conversation back when she first found Jacob. It's only been...what, three weeks? Maybe a little more? Somehow, it feels like another life.

“I'll have Constable Marin show you the way,” he tells her. “Keep a sharp eye out, Miss Frye. And do let me know if anything else comes up.” A beat of pause. “And give my regards to Jacob. How is he, by the way?”

The question surprises her, and that itself is startling. They've talked about the Assassins of the past twenty years and of what Jacob has built. They've talked about Jack and the hole that he's left. But this the first time all conversation that Jacob's present condition has come up, and she finds herself at a loss for words. How can she answer when even _she_ doesn't know?

“He's getting better,” she says after some consideration. “He's been walking up and about with a cane. With any luck, he'll be back to his proper weight soon.”

“And how is he?” Abberline repeats, and there's something somber and knowing in his gaze.

She smiles humorlessly. “Do you miss him, Inspector Abberline?”

“I would never miss the theatrical way Jacob Frye swans into my office, lording about and taking over as if he owns the whole damn Yard,” Abberline says dryly. He shakes his head, his expression growing serious. “But I've seen my share of men traumatized by the shadows they fight, Miss Frye. It changes people, most often for the worse.”

“He won't become another Jack, if that's what you're implying,” she says sharply.

“Oh, I know he won't,” Abberline says quietly. “But no one walks away from that sort of thing intact.”

That's concern in his voice, she thinks. But is it for London or for Jacob? Or perhaps it's not a dichotomy at all, and she's just being too defensive about all this. Another knot to untangle, and it's one that she pushes aside hastily. There are enough conundrums already in her life.

“He'll be fine,” she tells him. She inhales a sharp breath. “Now. The archives, Inspector?”

Too fast, too brusque. She has the sinking feeling that she's given away more with that than in two entire hours prior, but she can't define exactly what. To her utmost relief, he doesn't question her further, calling instead for a constable to lead her to the archives. It's just as well: she's out of words when it comes to Jacob, at least for now.

* * *

It's not as if there isn't plenty to occupy her. Abberline wasn't joking about the sheer size and magnitude of the Owers archives. There are boxes upon boxes of evidence, and the inventory is written in a barely legible hand with only the most basic descriptions such as “letters” or “cloth”. The persistent smell of smoke and soot doesn't really help, either, and it's just pervasive enough to be distracting. Evie finds herself requesting two more glasses of water to help her through the long afternoon.

A lot of the evidence is burned, moldy, or both. What survives provides a more than compelling story, though, and Evie slows down as she realizes that it's not just a ledger at stake: Owers kept _everything_. Salacious letters to and from clients, names that even she, after more than a decade of absence, can recognize in high society. There are fragments of account books that she doesn't quite understand the significance of, but she has the feeling that there are signs of embezzlement if she only chooses to look for them. And that's just the tip of the iceberg: a charred, half-rotted iceberg that stinks of smoke and fraud.

There's a growing headache at the base of her skull.

The sun's rays elongate throughout the course of the day, stretching long shadows across the archive hallways and gradually turning a brilliant, dying orange before sinking down under the horizon. There's only the streetlights left by the time she finds the red ledger. The leather cover smells musty, but the words inside are still perfectly clear. Names and addresses inscribed in a crisp, copperplate hand, the women condemned to an uneasy fate.

Carefully, she binds it in brown paper and sets it aside. One down, one to go, she thinks. With a sigh, she allows herself the luxury of a stretch, working out the kinks in her neck. Boxes upon boxes surround her, and she knows without looking that even if she does find the blackmail book, it won't be enough. Not when there are so many letters, accounts, all the evidence that Owers carefully hoarded for God only knows how long.

No. The problem _there_ is Luther, and all the archive combing in the world won't be enough to solve that problem. She looks down at her arm where the gauntlet is bound, a familiar weight that is as much a part of her as breathing. Without really thinking about it, she flexes her wrist, watching as the blade slides out in one smooth motion. Back in with another, then out once more. The motion is smooth and easy through the air, and it will be just as easy through blood and bone.

She is an Assassin, and she will kill if that's what it takes.

Decisively, she snaps the blade back in. Standing up, she begins the long task of repacking all the evidence back into their respective boxes. It won't do to thank Abberline's courtesy by leaving a mess all over his archives.

It's very late when she finishes her task, all the boxes neatly placed back on their shelves. The headache has grown now, and she rubs her temples for a moment before giving it up for a lost cause. As she leaves the Yard, she shivers as the cold hits her hard. She'd meant to contact Mr. Weaversbrook today, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. Her stomach rumbles as she makes her way through the streets, reminding her of how long it's been since she's last eaten.

Thankfully, the lights in the townhouse are on when she nears. She performs a quick, instinctual scan with eagle vision: Andrew and Edward are in their rooms. Arjun is nowhere to be seen. Jacob is in the living room sofa, his head bowed. She frowns with instinctive concern as she unlocks the door with numb fingers, and Jacob's head snaps up at the sound. He turns, and their eyes lock in the silver-grey world of eagle vision.

She closes the door behind her as noiselessly as she can. “Jacob,” she says, knowing that he can hear her even as she stands poised in the foyer. “What's wrong?”

He doesn't say anything. Expressions are harder to read with the second sight, and she's had enough trouble reading him already. She debates it for a moment longer before finally making her way across the hall and into the living room, each step heavy and wearily reluctant. He turns away from her the second he comes into proper view, and she holds back a sigh. “What is it?” she asks, trying to ignore her pounding headache.

“You're back,” he says, back turned to her. “Where were you?”

“The Yard,” she says. “I said so this morning. Remember?”

“You also said that you would be back by supper,” he says, and his voice is strained. “It's past midnight.”

She looks at the clock on the wall. So it is, she thinks with dull surprise. The clock reads nearly half an hour past midnight, which is considerably past suppertime. No wonder she's starving. “It took longer than expected,” she says with as much patience she can muster. “Abberline wanted to talk, and when he finally granted me access there were a lot of things to work through.” She takes a breath. “I did find something, so it wasn't completely wasted. I have the ledger of Unfortunates with me. As to Luther, we'll have to—”

“I don't care about the damn ledger right now,” he says, whirling around to face her. She blinks, startled: his eyes are bright, almost feverish, and she almost reaches out to touch his forehead to check. “You said that you would be back by _supper_.”

Oh. All right, then.

This is something different from him, yet another one of his shifting landscape of moods. She should try to puzzle it out. She should do something. Ask after him, perhaps, try to understand his mood. But: a cynical voice whispers, soft and insidious. Just two nights ago, you thought one thing of him. Yesterday, another. What's to say that he won't just shut down again?

She _really_ doesn't want to fight with him right now.

“I lost track of time,” she says as steadily as she can. “I didn't mean to worry you. I'm sorry.” She tries on a smile for size and winces as the throbbing ache near the base of her skull complains. “Next time, I'll send a runner out with a message. Will that satisfy you?”

His Adam's apple works up and down as he swallows hard, his lips moving wordlessly for a moment. She braces herself with one hand against the wall, feeling the weight of a thousand giants pressing down on her shoulders. Maybe she'll just take one of the rolls from the kitchen to her room, she thinks idly. Or actually skip supper altogether, that would work too. Sleep sounds very welcoming right now.

Abruptly, he sags, any anger bleeding out of him in a sudden rush. The movement draws her eye back to him, and despite her exhaustion, she pushes herself up from the wall and reaches out for him in instinct. With a surprisingly adroit movement, he shifts away from her touch. Silently, she lets her arm drop back to her side, unwilling or unable to fight.

She's not entirely sure which adjective applies more.

“There's supper warm in the oven,” he says, his voice low. A pause, then: “You should go to bed. You look exhausted.”

Concern, she thinks blurrily. For her, she has no doubt, but beyond that, there's nothing but questions. He's still shutting her out. She still doesn't know why. And so, nothing has changed. It's been just two days, and already the game is too tiresome for words.

He turns his back to her, heading for the stairs. “I'll see you in the morning,” he says. His voice is nearly swallowed by the hallway. “Good night, Evie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We may be due for another Jacob POV soon. Hmm. /headtilt


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally did a timeskip! Go me!

Surreal as it may be, life goes on. She wakes up early in the morning, and then it's off to see the Unfortunates, the Rooks, the solicitors, any of a dozen things that clamor for her attention. She talks to Jacob about business in a businesslike manner: passing on information and status updates, nothing more beyond the basics. It feels oddly reminiscent of the final stretch of their days in London all those years ago right before they killed Starrick, those days when they'd barely spoken to each other and the tension was a constant simmer just below the surface.

In its own way, it's terribly lonely.

She tries not to think about it. Her one consolation is that her efforts seem to be doing _some_ good, at least. As they step into the second week of December, Evie watches with weary pride as Whitechapel, frightened as it may be, stirs into cautious festivity. London will not stay beaten forevermore, and that's something they've done. The Assassins _will_ heal the mark that Jack has left on the city.

Two dates loom bright in her mind. There's Christmas itself, made all the more brighter by Emmett's letter from France. _Dear Aunt Evie,_ it reads in Emmett's untidy scrawl. _Madame Beaudoin has given me leave to come home early for the holiday. I look forward to seeing everyone again, and I hope that Father is doing well…_

(Other than a quiet “oh” of acknowledgment, Jacob doesn't say anything when he reads the letter. She doesn't want to worry about that, but she still does.)

But before that happy day, there's a date that's much closer and much more pressing: namely, the coming Sunday. Jacob's arranged to meet with Elise, the notoriously mercenary Rook, and he's insisting on doing so in person. Evie has her own thoughts on the subject, most of them being along the lines of it being a godawful idea. But as much as she can, she keeps her protests swallowed. The situation between the two of them is delicate enough, and it isn't for her to interfere.

...or damn it all to hell, it is.

He looks up briefly as she opens the door, and the smile he gives her is quick enough that she can't discern its authenticity. “Evie,” he says, his head already bent back over the papers on his desk. “Did Edward tell you that the purchase went through? Nellie gave me a list of a dozen women who want to sign leases already. I'll need Mr. Evanston to draw up contracts.”

“He did,” she says. She musters a smile of her own even though he isn't looking at her to see it. “I'm glad. It's a better location for them and a better price. Has Clara gotten back to you about the patrol reports?”

“Not yet,” he says, sounding distracted as he continues to write. “I trust her to use her best judgment, though. She doesn't need me to adjudicate every little thing that happens in the street.”

“True, she doesn't,” Evie says quietly. She folds her hands behind her back, studying Jacob from the side. He's dressed in a civilian shirt and trousers, and from this angle, one could almost pretend that he's back to old form. The keen eye catches all the details, though: the awkward way he sits because of his broken ribs, the missing calluses from his left hand, the thinness of his cheeks just barely disguised by the beard.

No. He can't go tomorrow, it's not safe.

She lets the silence draw out, waiting as Jacob's pen eventually scritches to a stop. She can see the moment of deliberation as Jacob decides whether or not to set the pen down and face her. To be entirely honest, she's not sure whethershe should be relieved when he finally does. She can see him take a breath as he raises his gaze to meet hers. “So,” he says.

“So,” she says casually in reply.

“You're still here,” he says. He's trying to sound relaxed, but she'll wager anything that he feels as uncomfortable as she does. “Was there something else you needed?”

“Yes,” she says. She hesitates for a moment before deciding to take the plunge. “It's about tomorrow, Jacob.”

“No,” he says immediately. “We're not talking about this.”

“You don't even know what I'm going to say,” she protests.

“Don't I?” he says sharply. “I'm going to the meeting. I can handle Russelin just fine, thank you. _And_ I can handle myself. I'm not a child, Evie.”

She blows out a long breath. “Look. All I'm saying is that if a fight breaks out, things might go badly,” she says. “I'm certain that you're very capable, Jacob, but—”

“Are you?” he interrupts. “I don't need you hovering over me. It's more than a month since you found me, and I'm fine.”

She inhales deeply. Stay calm, she thinks. Don't let him lure you into a fight. “You may think you're fine,” she says as gently as she can, “but a month really isn't that long at all, Jacob. There's a lot of things you're still not ready for, and meeting Russelin in hostile territory is one of those things.” She spreads her hands. “Look. You should stay home tomorrow, and I'll go in your place. Mr. Rochester has been informing me of the situation, and I think I can handle her well enough.”

He won't accept that offer at first glance, she knows, and she braces herself for an argument. He opens his mouth, and she thinks he might be ready to shout now. But she'll wear him down eventually, she knows. It's inevitable because he hasn't got the strength to fight her, and it isn't _safe_ for him to go out like that anyway.

He laughs instead, the sound full and hearty. A hand drags across his face in a poor attempt to conceal amusement, and she gapes at him in surprise. “What?” she says once she can dredge up the words. “What's so funny?”

“Oh, God! _You_ , Evie.” He shakes his head, still chuckling. “You should hear yourself speak. I can finally see it how it is.”

“You can?” she asks, still bewildered.

He looks up at her. Despite the laughter, there's no humor in his eyes. “I can indeed. You could at least _try_ to be a little less patronizing, sister dear.”

“I don't—I'm not trying to be patronizing,” she says as carefully as she can. “I'm just saying that it's not—”

“Yes, I heard what you said,” he says. He leans back in his chair, his voice taking on a singsong cadence. “Woe is me, I'm a wilting young flower who was so cruelly stomped under Jack's heel. So here you are, swooping in to save the day and protect me from all the things that lurk about in the night. Well, you don't need to, thanks all the same. I'm fine.”

He sits before her—sitting, not standing, because she knows for a fact that the act of getting upright is exhausting for him. He sits shrunken in his chair, his arm bladeless and cheeks hollow, and he's trying to tell her this with a straight face. What if a fight breaks out? He can't defend himself. What if she brings snipers? What if, what if, what if?

“Jacob,” she says as calmly as she can. “Be reasonable. It's been two months or more since you last wielded a blade. If Russelin came at you with a knife, never mind a gun, you wouldn't be able to fight back. And I'm sorry, but your days of cutting a dashing, intimidating figure are somewhat behind you for the moment.” She tries to lighten the mood, knowing even as she does that it's doomed to failure. “Russelin won't take you seriously like this.”

He raises a sardonic eyebrow. “How many times have you actually met Elise Russelin, Evie?” he asks. “No, don't answer that. I suppose seeing her from afar makes you an instant expert on her darkest nightmares.”

“Fine. Tell me I'm wrong,” she challenges. “Tell me that you can intimidate her, then. Go on. Look me in the eye and tell me that you have the strength to fight her should the need arise.”

He's quiet for a moment. His jaw works, and she thinks that he might be ready to shout in anger now. When he speaks again, though, his voice is low and intense. “I've worked with Elise on and off for fifteen years,” he says. “I promoted her first from the ranks when she was just another of O'Dea's urchins. She's risen rapidly and gone her own way since then, but that doesn't change those years of association.”

“So you're telling me that this is going to be a pleasant chat between old friends?” she says disbelievingly. “If that's so, why the hell did she take the Rooks and go rogue? This isn't a friendly reunion over a cup of tea, Jacob.”

“Why, thank you, I wouldn't have known that if you hadn't told me,” he says through clenched teeth, and oh, there's that anger coming out. _“_ I don't need to loom over or bully her. I've made arrangements with Andrew and with Paul's Rooks, and I've made precautions in case things go wrong.” He leans forward, eyes bright with defiance. “So really, the only problem here is you. You, Evie, need to stop treating me like a child.”

“I don't!” she says. She takes a breath, feeling a hot, unpleasant flush work its way up her spine. “I don't think of you like a child, Jacob.”

“You're trying to protect me,” he says coldly.

“Oh, and is that such a crime?” she demands. “Am I not allowed to be concerned about my brother?” She takes a shuddering breath, and oh God, she is trying so _hard_ not to be angry, but sometimes she just wants to take Jacob by the ear and shake him until he sees sense. “What the hell is your problem?” she snarls.

“So, so many,” he drawls.

He's trying to be insouciant, and that just makes her even angrier. She jabs a finger in his general direction. “What has been going on?” she says, and she knows that she's shouting now. “Ever since that night and whatever the hell that was that changed, _nothing_ has been the same. I am trying to help, Jacob, and you keep pushing me away and I am _fed up_ with this act!”

“Oh no, I'm quaking with fear,” he says sardonically.

His tone is snide, but as she takes a step forward, she can see him tense. It feels so petty to be vindictive in small victories like that, but the truth is if Jacob can't even handle _her_ , how can he possibly fare against hostile Rooks? “You ought to be,” she says viciously. “You're proposing to saunter deep into Russelin's territory when you can't even meet with allies outside of this house. I've been having to do all that for you—”

The mask breaks. “Oh, sod off, you holier-than-thou arse! Nobody asked for your help,” he snaps, and oh, now it's her turn to want to laugh with bitter rage. “If it's so tiring for you, go the hell back to India! No one forced you to stay. Certainly no one _asked_ you to!”

“Oh, bollocks,” she snaps back. “You bloody well did when you sent me that letter. And now I'm here, and I didn't pull you out of that hellhole so you could run headfirst back into danger! This isn't about some posturing or whatever image you're trying to project. This is about your life, and the very real possibility that you could get ambushed tomorrow!”

His expression is twisted into something ugly and furious. “Obviously that was my mistake, wasn't it,” he says harshly. “Fine! I free you from your tiresome burden. If something happens, then I'll handle it myself. You know why? Because for your information, Evie, I don't owe you my life. Just because you scavenged it from the filth doesn't mean that I'm under any obligation to protect it like it's some sort of sacred jewel, and I—” He breaks off abruptly, his gaze skittering away. He bites his lip, almost as if he's trying to reclaim the words.

What, she thinks.

Oh. God.

It feels like ice has coalesced around her heart, strangling out the breath from her lungs and freezing her down to the bone. She blinks at him, struggling to process his words. “Jacob,” she whispers, the anger drained away. “Jacob. What are you saying?”

He won't look at her. “Nothing,” he says evasively.

“ _Jacob_.”

“Evie,” he mutters in reply. “You do know that repeating my name won't magically make all the world's problems go away.”

“No, it won't,” she says softly. “But I can damn well try.”

He looks down at his hands for a long moment, silent. His shoulders slump, and he seems to curl in on himself. It seems an eternity before he raises his head to look her in the eye, and it frightens her more than any fight they've ever had. There's no anger anymore in his expression. In a way, it's almost as if a circuit has been cut, leaving him flat and frighteningly dead.

“I don't think it works that way,” he says quietly. “I don't think that this isn't anything that you can fix.”

“So you won't even let me try?” she whispers.

Somehow, he manages to muster a smile. It's bleak and absolutely devoid of humor, even the sarcastic kind. “Well. You _have_ tried, remember?” he says. He wavers for a moment, and then he drops his head into his hands, hiding his face from view almost as if in defeat. “And I've been trying, too,” he adds hoarsely from between his palms. “I swear, Evie, I have.”

She reaches forward, Resting a hand on his shoulder, she can feel the fragile weight of his shoulderblade through the cloth. He doesn't shake off her touch, which is more than anything else he's allowed in what feels like the past week or more. It doesn't feel like a victory, though. The exact opposite, in fact.

He draws in a shaky breath. “I can't,” he says. “I can't do this.”

“You don't have to,” she tells him helplessly. “You're putting too much on yourself, Jacob, that's why I'm here, that's why I can _help_.”

He shakes his head, the movement sudden and violent. “No,” he says, and the word sounds strangled. “Evie, it's not safe. I should never had sent that letter.”

Is he having a flashback, perhaps? “Jack is dead. He didn't get me, Jacob,” she reminds him gently. “I'm here now. I'm all right.”

“No,” he says, and the word is harsh. “It's not just Jack, Evie. It's that you shouldn't even be here.” His head jerks up for a moment, and she catches a glimpse of a wild expression, too fast for her to truly understand. In the next instant, he's bowed over again, his head buried in his palms and away from the world. “This isn't right.”

Is he referring to her presence here, or something else? she wonders. “What isn't right?” she asks, struggling to keep her voice measured. “There are a lot of things that aren't right, Jacob, but we can fix them together if we just—”

“You shouldn't be here,” he repeats mechanically. “You don't belong here. This isn't your home anymore.”

Oh.

Despite her resolve, she flinches violently at the words, each one hammering home like a nail in a coffin. Is that it, then? she thinks. He doesn't want her here? All this, the sudden coldness: was that all to drive her away? But why? Was it because...because she's hovering too much, because she's coddling him, because she _treats him like a child_ _…?_

That can't be it, she thinks, but it's hard to think over the ringing in her ears. “You don't mean that,” she hears herself say, but the words sound very far away. “Jacob?”

The last word comes out like a plea. She watches as Jacob shakes his head, still refusing to look up. He's in pain, she thinks. There has to be more that he wants to say, and there's guilt and despair and a thousand other emotions wrapped up in it. He's angry, he's frustrated, he has every right to be.

 _But so does she._ She's not going to pretend that his words don't hurt, because they do.

She takes a breath. Pushes back a stray wisp of hair. Clears her throat and pulls away from Jacob, standing up straight. “All right,” she says, and it surprises her somewhat how calm her voice is. “I'm sorry that's how you feel.”

He doesn't say anything, rocking back and forth in a rhythmic, almost mechanical motion. She reaches out, absently patting the top of his head. He needs to take another bath. Maybe change his bandages. She hasn't been checking in on him as closely as she did before, and he's clearly neglected some things. Or, she thinks with an almost hysterical laugh, maybe she'll ask Dr. Schultz or Andrew to do it instead. Seeing as she doesn't belong and all.

If she stays for another moment, she really will start laughing. Or crying, or punching, or throwing knives at the nearest target. Since the nearest target is Jacob, she doesn't want to do any of that. Really.

Instead, she just leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a perfect world, people would be fluffy and happy and there would possibly be unicorns involved. In a not-so-perfect world, there's this, where emotional mistakes are so dangerously _easy_ to make. This is a tipping point in a lot of ways, and it's a bumpy ride from here on out. (Hopefully with a general upward trajectory, but you never know. Maybe.)
> 
> As a whole, this is admittedly a bit influenced by the latest [Assassin's Den podcast](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUS7KuDCr_8) with Paul Amos, the voice actor of Jacob. While I don't completely agree with all of them, there are quite a few interesting character insights in there.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today! They were originally intended to be written as a single chapter, but it became apparent about halfway in that the split was needed. Should become obvious in the next chapter why.

So, here's the thing: she could _always_ leave for India.

Except that she can't.

Except that he _wants_ her to leave.

Except that he doesn't, not really.

Or does he? Yes. No. Can she go? Can she afford to stay? Is her presence here doing more harm than good, or is it the only thing keeping Jacob from launching himself into the abyss? She doesn't know. She doubts that he knows. There are no answers here, only an endless litany of questions, endlessly spiraling downwards.

Evie sits on the roof now, staring out over the snowy rooftops of London. The streets are dark, but she knows that they're never truly quiet. It was true twenty years ago and it's true now, one of those reassuring constants of time that tells her she hasn't gone mad. Something she'd never thought that she would need, but then again, she never thought that they'd be in this situation, either.

She puts out a hand, watching idly as a snowflake drifts down to rest on her fingertips. It doesn't melt against the leather; a tiny glint of light against the black. Maybe there's a metaphor in that. Or maybe it's just snow, and she's looking too hard for something that doesn't exist. But _that's_ the metaphor, right there: Does Jacob exist anymore? she wonders. Is her brother, her twin, still there, or has Jack killed every spark of hope and energy that made Jacob who he was?

Unsurprisingly, the snowflake yields no answers. She sighs and presses her fingers together, crushing it into water. Restlessly, she stands, padding noiselessly along the tiles of the roof. This isn't helping, she thinks. So what now? Put the feelings aside, find out what is true here. What are the facts, Evie?

(Don't let personal feelings compromise the mission.)

She lets out a slow breath, rubbing her temples in an attempt to center herself. Strip it down to the bare truth, examine the situation with a neutral eye. So, fact one: the Unfortunates, while their situation is changing for the better, are still under the threat of Luther and his Rooks. Changing residences only postpones the inevitable, and that won't stop the corrupted Rooks from rampaging about the city.

Fact two: Jacob is destroyed. He's been a wonderful liar for the past week or so, but that doesn't hide the fact that Jack broke him. To what extent—well, enough that he doesn't care anymore. Thinking about the specifics hurts too much, so she pushes that away. Objectivity. That's what she wants.

Breathe, Evie.

So, fact three. What is it? Her thoughts are scattered now, though, and she hugs her arms to herself as if she can claim it back. A gust of wind blows by, and she shivers involuntarily. Third fact, fact three, _teesare tathy yah hai_ _ **.**_

It's true. She doesn't belong here. The acknowledgement is bitter to swallow, but the sooner she gets it out of the way, the better. The streets are crowded in London, but not near crowded enough. It's too grey and cold here; she misses the heat on her skin, the scorching sky that she'd never thought she could learn to love but now intimately misses. The voices, the people: everything is different. And God, she misses Henry. She misses Henry and Parvati so much. Maybe she should go back. She could leave the cold emptiness of London behind and go back to warm Amritsar where her family awaits, and it would all just be a terrible dream—

A wild sound escapes her. It takes her a moment to realize it as some sort of half-laugh, half-sob, descending rapidly down towards the depths of mania and madness. She claps a hand over her mouth as if she can reclaim it, breathing in hard through her nose. No. No. _No._

She can't let him die.

Of all the facts, this is the clearest of them all. It doesn't matter how much he hates her or how much he hurts her with his words. Beneath the posturing, beneath the frustration and rage and emptiness, he's still her brother, and she's still his sister. She cannot, _will_ not let him teeter at the edge of a precipice alone. It's a promise that was sealed the moment that they entered this world a bare four minutes apart, and Jack has only served to renew it in blood. She's left before, when they were both young and hale with the whole world at their feet. But now?

No. She would never be able to forgive herself.

There's something wet and heavy on her cheeks, the hot warmth quickly freezing in the snowy air. She wipes at it with a gloved hand, tilting her head back towards the sky. The moon is blurry at first, but it soon sharpens as she blinks quickly. It's bright tonight, almost full. It seems to act as a shining beacon, guiding her back to the townhouse.

A breath. Another. In the next breath, she makes the jump to the neighboring roof, the movement fluid and sharpened by decades of practice. She makes her way across the rooftops one after another, taking the Assassin's way home.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning is a quiet affair. Arjun's still out of the house and Andrew's left to prepare for the rendezvous, leaving just Edward to putter around the lower floor. No doubt sensing the tension in the air, the man quickly excuses himself, and then it's just her and Jacob at the breakfast table. Jacob picks listlessly at his toast, not even making a pretense of eating. She keeps quiet as long as she can, dallying over her own breakfast even as it turns dry and tasteless in her mouth.

She's nibbling on her third slice of toast before he finally sighs, the sound heavy and tired. He raises his head, his gaze searching out hers. “What?” he asks bluntly. It's the first words he's said to her all morning.

She pauses. “Yes?”

“Stop it,” he says.

It's the way that he says it that gives her pause. There's no irritation or anger in his expression. His voice is flat and monotone. The charade of jokes and sarcasm has been stripped away, and it's as if he doesn't have the energy to function at anything other the bare minimum. She leans back in her chair, meeting his gaze levelly. It feels as if she could say anything, but at the same time, the words would be meaningless. In the background, the clock ticks quietly, a countdown to noon.

“You'll need an Assassin's gauntlet,” she says at last. “Even if you don't use it, it will look strange if you don't have one.”

The edge of his mouth twists up in a brief, humorless smile. It's gone as quickly as it came. “There's one in the basement,” he says.

“Where?”

“Down the stairs to the left,” he says. “A hidden cabinet.”

She nods, standing up. She's never been in the basement before, but the door isn't hard to find. There's a lamp near the base of the stairs, and she turns it on to reveal—for lack of a better name—a training arena. It's a relatively open space with markings on the floor indicating the bounds of an arena. There are cupboards along one side, and she opens one to see wrapping and padding neatly stacked in rows. Eagle vision reveals a hidden drawer under it, and she smiles to see the row of knives as she slides it open. Another door reveals guns. A third, brass knuckles.

The closed cabinet doors have kept the weapons free of dust, but the ground has not gone unscathed. It's clearly been unused and empty for a while, but in another life, before Jack destroyed him, this is where Jacob trained his apprentices. If she concentrates hard enough, maybe she can see the ghostly imprints of people talking, laughing, fighting in this very space. Echoes from a happier time, never to be reclaimed.

No.

She shakes away the maudlin thoughts, turning her attention back to the cabinets. There, shimmering in gold. It's well-hidden behind two doors, actually, the second protected by a tumbler lock. The numbers shine bright in the sight, and it's a matter of seconds before it gives way. There. Two gauntlets, relatively dust-free. She picks one up, testing the weight and heft of it in her hand. The leather is used and worn, and it's a little lighter than her own. She tests out the blade, hearing the soft _snikt_ as it snaps in and out with a flick of her wrist. It needs a little oiling, but otherwise, it's quite serviceable. She busies herself in doing so, oiling the mechanism and wiping away the dust.

It's twenty minutes later that she emerges, prize in hand. Jacob's still sitting at the table, and she wonders if he's moved at all since she left. Probably not. “Jacob,” she says quietly. “I'm back.”

He jolts as if startled, but he recovers quickly and turns to face her. He doesn't pretend to smile at her, but his eyes do widen a little as he sees what she's carrying. “Oh,” he says, and the word is soft.

She smiles at him, but his expression stays frozen in shock. With slow, deliberate movements, she pulls up a chair next to him and holds the gauntlet to him, blade end facing towards her. “Here.”

He stares at it for a long moment, seemingly paralyzed. It seems an eternity before he finally reaches out, lifting it from her hands with delicate care. His fingers run over the rope launcher, dancing over the pointed edge of the dart and smoothing the rough cracks in the leather. They halt to a rest at the edge of the blade, and there's only the coiled tension of a spring preventing the blade from slicing his fingers off. She watches him, resisting the temptation to wrench his hand away. They're both Assassins born and bred, and he knows full well what the hidden blade can do.

The sudden sound of a ragged breath breaks the still air. Jacob's head drops, his shoulders pulling together as if in pain. He's shaking, and she thinks for a single heartbreaking moment that he might be crying. But he's not: there are no tears, just deep, rasping breaths like he's drowning on dry land. She bites her lip, his pain paralyzing her in turn, and it suddenly strikes her just how twisted the entire mess is. Jacob is alive, and the women are not. Like some macabre judge, Jack decided their deaths, just like by some arbitrary whim he decided Jacob's life. And even though he's gone now, he's made his indelible brand on Jacob, on all of them, and it's so bloody _unfair—_

For a moment, she thinks that he might reject the gauntlet. Or maybe he'll snap the blade free and slice it into her—or worse, himself. But that's the crux of it, isn't it? It's not just a gauntlet. It's a choice to be an Assassin again: the burden of a trained killer, bound only by history and responsibility and morality. After all, it's a very thin line that separates them from murderers like Jack.

It's so easy to kill, isn't it? And so very hard to live.

With shaking deliberation, his fingers lift away from the edge, and she can breathe again. Slowly, he looks up at her, hazel eyes capturing hers. He unfolds himself with careful movements, straightening up and holding his arm out. “Evie,” he says. “Could you?”

Mutely, she nods and reaches out. The gauntlet is a little smaller than his old one, but it fits well given his loss of muscle mass. She checks the fit of the leather, making sure that the straps are tight enough to stay on without cutting off circulation. “Try it out,” she says after a minute of adjusting.

It's been months, maybe more, since he wielded a blade, and that's not even counting the shoulder injury in his left arm. The motion has been drilled into them since childhood, though, and there are some things that one never forgets: a certain flex of the arm, a roll of the wrist. The blade snaps out in a single fluid slide, revealing a good hands-length of deadly, gleaming metal. It's clean of blood—she made sure of that—but it's impossible to forget the purpose for which it was made.

She can see his warped reflection from this angle, his eyes wide in the distorted image. “I didn't think this would happen again,” he says, staring fixedly at the blade. His voice is hoarse.

 _This_ could refer to any number of things. She leaves the ambiguity be, nodding in response. “Yes,” she says instead. “I know.”

He wets his lips, his eyes still fixed on the blade. With another movement, he snaps it back in, bringing the blade back to deceptive quiescence. “I,” he begins, and then stops. “I don't. I—Evie.” He closes his eyes. “Will you…?”

Ah.

There's a question in there, hidden and unvoiced but an request nonetheless. Evie closes her eyes as the instinctive understanding filters in, and that, more than anything else, gives her hope. Maybe they haven't lost everything that made them, well, _them_ , not if they can still speak like this.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “I'll be there.”


	13. Chapter 13

_Interlude: Jacob_

Andrew's picked a good place. The rendezvous point is at an old, empty warehouse that Catherine had made plans to sell a few months ago before the whole nightmare with Jack had truly come to life. It's about a mile from the Thames, far enough from Elise's territory to hopefully claim some semblance of neutrality. It's nearly cleared out, so there's very little place for Elise to hide her troops, but the roof boasts a skeleton of rafters for an Assassin to climb. Well. If he could climb, which he can't.

But that's rather beside the point, isn't it.

Every time he sees her, it seems that Elise Russelin has gained some sort of new line or scar on her face. Evie's worried about Luther, he knows, but Elise the true power behind this coup. She's a short, stocky woman who was fought every inch of the way as a child and is no less defiant as an adult. That's what drew his notice to her, after all: he's always had an eye for the fighters, to the rebellious, those who struggled against the constraints of what society would place upon them. Evie would probably say that he sees himself in them, and maybe it really is just that simple. And sometimes his intuition works out, except for the one awful time that he will never, ever be able to erase.

(Don't think about that. Not now.)

“Jacob Frye, as I live and breathe.”

He shakes away the rapidly descending cloud, forcing himself to look up as Elise approaches. “Elise,” he acknowledges. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

She sits in the chair across from him, straddling it casually as a man would. It's just the two of them in the warehouse, but she's always had some peculiar way of taking up all the air in a room, even one as wide as this. “You know, I wasn't expecting to hear from Rochester about you,” she says in reply. “Word on the street was that you were dead.”

Well. If only she knew. “Reports of that were greatly exaggerated,” he says, and he even manages to inject a little dryness in that. “Did you miss me, Elise?”

She smiles. It's not a very nice smile. “You know, I would've gone to your funeral. Sent flowers, even, all proper-like.”

“I'm touched. Are you disappointed, then, that you didn't get the opportunity yourself?” he asks. He tries to make it sound light, pass it off as a joke. Does it work? It's hard to tell how things are supposed to feel these days.

“Hah! It looks like someone came bloody well close,” Russelin notes, and that's not a no. “You're looking a bit peaky these days, Jacob. I'm surprised that you came out of your fortress for little old me. It must be something very grand if you've come groveling about.” There's a touch of a sneer to her face. “But then again, the ranks aren't as strong as they used to be, are they?”

The last they met, Jacob remembers, it had been to deliver a warning. The Assassins had been much stronger then, certainly strong enough to keep Elise at bay in her bid for more territory. It had been a joint effort: Mary Ann passed on information about a contract Elise had had her eyes on, and Catherine and Elizabeth had negotiated it out from under her nose. Then he and Andrew, backed by a line of Paul's Rooks, had sabotaged two of her incoming shipments from France. Enough to put a dent in her coffers and make her think twice of moving further into Whitechapel, at least at the time.

He remembers delivering said warning quite vividly. From the look on her face, he knows that she does as well.

“What has Maurice Luther paid you?” he asks. So that's the elephant in the room, but they'll dance around it for as long as they may. “Don't tell me you've been lured by the sheer size of the Admiral's ships, Elise.”

“Tut! It's not how big the ships are, but how you use them. And Luther's ships have been very helpful indeed,” she says. “A friendly business arrangement, see? And everybody benefits.”

“Everybody meaning you,” he says tiredly. Has it only been bare minutes since the conversation began? It feels like it's been centuries already. “What do you want with Whitechapel anyway?” he asks. “It's a wretched cesspit. There's nothing there, and there never was. What does Luther offer you that no one else can?”

“That would be telling, wouldn't it,” Elise says, and oh, she's so very smug. He would feel angry about it, except that it's hard to feel anything at all except the numb greyness. “What, you think I'm a fool? That I'll sit here and spill out my heart and soul to you? You're going to have to do better than that, _Assassin_.”

The word comes out of her mouth as a hissed curse, low and dripping with contempt. It's not entirely undeserved, he thinks wearily. He leans back in the chair and looks at her, blinking into eagle vision between one moment and the next. She's armed, of course: a pistol strapped to her hip, two knives tucked into her boots. In turn, he has the gauntlet strapped on his arm, the pride and joy of the Assassin name. He's never felt more like a child, playing with toys that are far too unwieldy for him.

“You agreed to the meeting,” he notes. “We both know that you don't waste time with trivialities. What are you hoping to walk away this?”

She laughs. It's more of a bark, really, and it's absolutely empty of any humor. “That easy, Jacob? I'm disappointed. No friendly tête-à-tête? No offers of afternoon tea? No veiled threats with a blade held to my throat?" She pauses. "Your months-long vacation has made you soft.”

She's trying to bait him. It might have worked in another age, but rising to it would require far more energy than he has these days. “What price has Luther paid?” he asks again with patience born of resignation. “You were always a restless ally at best.”

“Sweet words, Frye.”

“It's not flattery if it's true, Russelin.”

She doesn't answer for a moment. Her eyes are narrowed as she studies him, and he wonders vaguely what picture he presents. A disheveled mess. Unworthy as an adversary, even less so as an ally. Has she got her bully boys stationed outside, ready to rush in at some unhidden signal? Or perhaps snipers on the roof to shoot him the moment he tries to leave? Elise is many things, and canny is only the first. She knows how to protect herself.

She picks at the dirt under her nails now, seemingly without a care in the world. He sits, waiting as the interminable minutes tick by. It's a power play, making him wait for something so trivial. And the truth is, he doesn't have the strength to fight it, nor the will to do so. How would the old Jacob have reacted? he thinks. But it's like a faded memory from ages past, and he can no longer remember.

“You've always been close with the Unfortunates, haven't you,” she says when her nails are cleaned to her satisfaction. It's not a question. “You and your little band of friends. I'm surprised that you didn't shove a knife into Owers' throat when her parties started up.”

Olwyn Owers. She'd arrived quickly and seized power just as quickly, no doubt orchestrating timing with Jack so that the worst of it would coincide with Jack's murders. And it had fallen to Evie, as always, to clean up the mess that he's left behind. “Owers is dead,” he says with a calm that he doesn't feel.

“Oh, yes! Dead and ashes. You know, Dame Frye's made quite a name for herself.” Elise pauses, a glint in her eye. “Where is she, anyway? I'm _dying_ to ask her all sorts of questions.”

How droll. “I'm sure you are,” he says. He's trying for snide, but it comes out as more of a murmur. “Is this really the time for jokes, Elise?”

“Your vacation really did you no favors. You used to be funnier,” she comments. “Nastier, but funnier. I'm not sure which I prefer better.”

Well, you're not the only one, he thinks. If he tries very hard, he might even manage to see a hint of humor in it, but doing so doesn't seem worth it. He quickly abandons the effort. “I've heard that you've been sending men around,” he says instead. “Are you looking for something?”

She ignores the question. “They like you, don't they,” she remarks instead. “The Unfortunates. And you like them, for more reasons than just fucking them into the sheets. I heard just yesterday that you've even been trying to set up a proper place for them away from Whitechapel. Now that's nice, isn't it?”

Her tone indicates that it's anything but nice. She's circling around something, slow and ominous. “I'm positively philanthropic,” he tells her warily. “So?”

She leans back and crosses her arms. He watches her, feeling a dull edge of inevitability threaten to slice into him. She's got something up her sleeve, doesn't she. Something prepared to force his hand, while all this time he's been sitting around doing nothing. Even before this meeting began, they were on uneven ground, and it's all his damn fault again. The realization threatens to overwhelm him, and it's one of the hardest fights of his life to push the wave of despair back. He can't collapse, not now.

“What do you want?” he says instead, fighting to keep his voice steady.

She lets it draw out for another agonizing moment before smirking, the expression cruel and satisfied. “Here's how it's going to go down,” she says. “You will withdraw your Rooks from Whitechapel. The Unfortunates are not going to move anywhere, and you are going to convince them to re-sign their leases with the lodgings that I will very shortly own. They listen to you, for whatever reason. God only knows why.”

The Unfortunates. Nellie. She doesn't deserve this, none of them do, not to be used as some pawn in whatever tug-of-war Elise has going on. Despite the depression that drags down on him, Jacob forces himself to sit up straight. “Let's dispense with the riddles,” he says with a strength that he doesn't feel. “So you don't want the Unfortunates leaving. Why?”

“Don't be dense, Frye,” she says coldly. “They may be a bunch of whores, but nobody talks more freely than a man with his cock in some bitch's mouth. Owers knew that, and she made herself a pretty penny off as a result. Now _that's_ my business interest, and you will either get on board or get the hell out of the way.”

“Or else you'll what?” he says softly.

She smiles, the expression feral, and he has the sinking feeling that he's walked straight into a trap. “I read the letter in the papers,” she says. “Nice piece of fiction, wasn't it?”

It's a non sequitur, but he know instantly to what she's referring: Edward's letter about the Ripper's demise, delivered by Evie and published by Weaversbrook. The one that was supposed to put an end to Jack's story, the one that was supposed to lay his ghost to rest so that the Unfortunates could breathe easy. And now she's bringing it up, which can only mean—

He can hear a very faint ringing in the distance. The realization is there, lurking just over the horizon, and there's only so long that denial will protect him. “Elise,” he says, and his voice sounds thready and weak even to his own ears. “You wouldn't.”

She shrugs. “Carrot and stick, Jacob. The Unfortunates can come to me because you ask them to, or they can come to me because they have no other choice. Owers made her best profits when she had the Ripper at her beck and call. Something about fear makes them all the more eager to work, I find.” She leans forward. “So there's _your_ choice.”

“Owers may have profited through the Ripper,” he says through clenched teeth, “but she's also dead. What makes you think that the same won't happen to you?”

“Oh, is your attack dog of a sister hanging about?” Elise says, sounding supremely unconcerned. “She can kill me if she likes. It would be quick, wouldn't it? I know how you lot like to work. Too moral for your own fucking good. I can't say the same about how your little friend would die, though. The Ripper was always a messy killer, and poor Miss Nellie would be no exception.”

 _Nellie_.

The ringing has transformed into a roar, a blinding wave of helpless despair and anger. This can't be happening, he thinks. Jack is dead. Even if Jacob is still trapped, that doesn't mean the rest of the world has to be. They were moving on. Whitechapel was healing, and it was supposed to be _over_. How can Elise do this? How can the universe stand for such injustice? Isn't there supposed to be some kind of greater force that keeps the scales in balance? Some kind of watcher or guardian that measures out what is due to each? Some force in the shadows, invisible and unseen but always there at the end of all things...

Russelin is watching him, her eyes no doubt picking out each and every sign of weakness. There are none, because there is nothing left. There's only a cold emptiness, a numb layer of ice covering everything that keeps him from shattering apart. It lets him raise his head and meet her gaze, and it lends a calm insouciance to his voice. “That's quite an offer,” he says, and it feels almost as if someone else is speaking the words. “Is there a deadline to all this?”

“I want your Rooks out of the district by tomorrow,” she says. She's won and they both know it; the victory is hanging clear in the air. “Your housing purchase will be called off as well, or I'll know why. As for the leases—I'll give you until the twentieth. Consider it my Yuletide gift to you.”

He nods mechanically. Elise watches him for a moment longer, but there's not much else to say: her point has been very well made. She stands. She even offers him a hand to shake, and the resulting handshake is tight, grinding together the still-healing bones of his fingers. It doesn't hurt, though. It doesn't feel like anything.

“Have a lovely Christmas, Frye,” she says with a benign smile, and then she's out the warehouse door.


	14. Chapter 14

Stay with Jacob, or follow Russelin? Evie crouches on the rafter above as Russelin strolls leisurely out the door, waiting for some sort of signal from Jacob. There is none. He may as well be a statue with how still he is, and in the next second Evie makes her choice. Stay. Plan. _Think_.

She drops down from the rafters to the ground level of the warehouse. It's not a very quiet landing, but Jacob doesn't move or otherwise react. His eyes are fixed at the warehouse door as if he's watching Russelin walk away, but he's not tracking her path. She approaches him as she might a rabid dog, hands up and voice low. “Jacob,” she says. “Wake up.”

There's a noticeable delay of a second or more, but then he looks up to meet her gaze. He looks remarkably calm, but it only serves to make her more uneasy. “Evie,” he says. He doesn't bother asking her if she's heard every word. “Where are the others?”

She looks up, switching briefly to eagle vision to check. “In their places,” she says. “Shall I call them?”

He nods. With one hand on the table, he pushes himself upright to a standing position. “Yes, please,” he says, and there's not even a tremor in his voice. “If you can.”

She considers him for a moment. “Wait here,” she says finally. “I'll be right back.”

She doesn't want to leave him alone for long, not with Russelin's threat still lingering so vividly in the air. Fortunately, the others aren't hard to find. As Assassins are wont to do, Andrew's crouching on a nearby roof, rifle in hand. Arjun's loitering casually on a street corner, and Edward's been posing as a customer in a nearby pub. She signals them, and it's a short while later that they're gathered in the warehouse, circled around Jacob in some sort of strange tableau. Jacob looks no worse for his brief time alone, but what's beneath the surface—well, who knows.

From the looks on the others' faces, she isn't the only one who senses that something's gone incredibly awry. “What happened, Jacob?” Andrew asks. “Is everything all right? What did she say?”

“Andrew,” Jacob says, ignoring the question. His shoulders are loose, almost relaxed, and Evie wants to scream with frustration. “Signal the retreat from Whitechapel. Pull your Rooks back to the boundaries of the city proper.”

Andrew frowns. “That'll leave the Unfortunates without any protection,” he says slowly. “We can't do that.”

“You will,” Jacob says, his tone cold. Andrew's frown deepens. “Tell Paul to evacuate the Thames, too,” Jacob continues. “We won't fight them over water rights.”

Andrew's silent for a moment, but she can see the brooding on his face. “I _can_ do that,” he says finally, “but I'd like to why. What happened? What did Russelin say that's got you all terrified, Jacob?”

Jacob blinks twice, three times rapidly in succession. It's smallest of actions, but Evie knows instinctively that it signals nothing good. It's a sign that he's losing control of the situation and of himself. She clears her throat, drawing the attention of the other men to herself. “Among other things,” she says quietly, “she's got Nellie under her control. And she's threatening to resurrect the Ripper's memory if she doesn't get control over the Unfortunates.”

She can hear Arjun gasp softly. Andrew reels back as if struck, and Edward's eyes widen in surprise. Only Jacob stays perfectly still, unmoving and unreacting. “She's _what_?” Andrew demands, his hands clenching around the rifle. “I'll bloody shoot out her brains myself!”

“Where's Nellie now?” Arjun asks, his normally dark skin ashen. “We need to find her!”

“Andrew's right, we can't just give in,” Edward adds. He sounds angrier than she's ever heard him before, and it's certainly strange coming from the mild-mannered accountant. “There are lives at stake here, more than just her damned ego and nascent megalomania.”

“Damn straight. Giving in this matter would be equivalent to throwing the Unfortunates to the wolves,” Andrew says, his arms crossing. “They finally have an opportunity to break free, and we're just going to toss them back in into the cesspit? We may as well not be here at all, then. Worse, we're actively condemning them to their fate.” He turns to Jacob. “Listen, Jacob. Russelin's jerking us on a chain. If we give in now, it'll never stop.”

Jacob's silent, his face still and implacable. Evie waits silently, her heart a lump in her throat. When he finally speaks, he sounds a thousand years old. “Andrew,” he says, and then he stops for a moment. Finally: “Do you know what Jack did?”

Andrew blinks. “What?” he says, and the words are certainly enough to at least slightly derail his anger and send it spinning into confusion. “I don't—I mean, I saw what he did to Mary Ann,” he says after a moment. “And then you sent us away to Crawley. Remember that?”

“I did send you away,” Jacob says quietly. “But then _I_ stayed. I stayed to stop him, and I stayed to see what he did to the others. I got to see Annie, Katey, and Lizzie slaughtered and eviscerated and left like rotting slabs of meat on the streets. And then I got to watch their deaths over and over again for weeks on end.” Despite the disturbing words, his tone is flat and distant, almost eerily so. “And now Russelin has Nellie, and I have had enough of watching them die screaming in agony. That's what will happen to her if you don't do as I say, so—” His eyes snap up to fix on Andrew's, hazel eyes burning bright. “When I say that we retreat, you will damn well listen. Do you understand?”

There's a tension in the air, thick and almost audibly simmering. She looks at Edward and Arjun. From the wide-eyed looks on their faces, this probably hasn't happened before. She's seen Jacob angry before, of course, but this is different somehow. Dangerous, almost. And— _desperate_.

“Okay,” Andrew says slowly, his hands held palm upwards as if in placation. Evie doesn't miss the look that he throws her. She gives him a miniscule shake of her head, hoping that Jacob doesn't notice. If Jacob does notice, he doesn't acknowledge it in any way, and she's not sure that that's a good thing. “All right. We'll do it your way, Jacob. I'll let Paul know. They'll be out of Whitechapel by dawn.”

Jacob gives him a curt nod of acknowledgment, and it takes a keen eye to spot the flash of gratitude. “Good,” he says. “Edward: call Evanston, invoke the buyer's clause and get out of the contract. And Arjun, you need to tell Saundra to stop her patrols. God only knows what Russelin will do to them if she finds out that she's been spied on.”

Arjun gives Andrew an uncertain look, clearly unsure of whether or not to obey. Andrew blows out a long breath, looking back and forth between Evie and Jacob, and Evie can almost visibly see him weighing the calculations in his head. “Right,” he says finally. He turns to the others. “You heard him. Go on. Meet back at the house when you're done.”

With a last hesitant look, they leave. Andrew stays, though, drumming his fingers on the butt on the rifle. He's clearly got something on his mind, and Evie wagers that it's quite similar to what she's thinking. They can't let Russelin win her way in this, but Jacob's clearly in no shape to contest her. So, what next? More importantly, what does that mean for the London Brotherhood?

The worst thing is, she knows the answer. If this were anyone else— _she would know_.

Irrationally, she's furious at the others for pushing him to this point, and she's furious at herself for her failure to fix it all. Jacob's staring into some middle distance again, and she can see Andrew considering the best place to begin the conversation. Before he can start, though, she puts a hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him away. “Mr. Rochester,” she begins.

He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Miss Frye,” he returns. His mouth pulls into a tight line. “Well?”

She offers him a rueful smile. “The meeting didn't go quite as well as expected,” she says, and that's putting it as delicately as possible. “Tensions are high, and emotions are not as well controlled as we would like. Let's all take a couple hours to think on it. We can regroup later in the evening.”

There are so many words hanging unspoken in the air. Andrew gives her a grave look, clearly taking her measure. She raises her chin, meeting his inquiring gaze with a steady one of her own. There's a long moment, and then: “All right. I'll be back by evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rochester,” she says quietly.

He shoulders his rifle, his mouth pulled into a grim line. “I'm not sure that your thanks are appropriate here,” he says. He casts a sidelong glance at Jacob, and there's another long silence. “I'll see you tonight.”

It's surprisingly ominous. She watches him leave, his steps purposeful as he strides through the door. She doesn't doubt that he's a loyal Assassin, and that he's followed Jacob's command for however many years. She also knows how badly mistrust and doubt can damage any relationship, especially when the stakes at hand are as high as they are. And truth be told—he's not wrong. He really isn't.

She turns back to Jacob and starts a little to realize that he's looking at her, _really_ looking. It's absurd to feel guilty, but she does. Trying to hide it, she affects a smile, pushing her hair back with one hand. “Yes?”

There's a melancholy edge to Jacob's expression. It's not the frozen look of just minutes before, though, and she must take that as a sign. A good sign, she hopes as fervently as she can. “You're not as subtle as you think you are,” he says at last, and she sighs. “I know what you're thinking.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she says awkwardly. He's talking, at least, and that's a good thing, but that does nothing to take away the unspoken conclusion lying heavy in the air. “I'm not thinking anything.”

“Yes, you are.” He doesn't sound angry, just matter-of-fact. He raises a hand to scrub it wearily across his face, and God, he looks so much older than their forty years. “It's like Crawley, isn't it?”

She frowns in confusion at the non sequitur. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

“We used to laugh at them, didn't we?” he says softly. “We thought they were cowards for hiding away. That's why we left, isn't it? All those years ago.”

She swallows. There's a lump in her throat, thick and almost impossible to force words past. “You're not a coward, Jacob.”

“Aren't I?” he says, and there's that distance in his voice again. “I'm scared, Evie.” It's a confession, of sorts, but she's not sure if he's saying it to her or to some unknown force in search of absolution that may not even exist. “I can't do this.”

“That's not true,” she says automatically, even as she traitorously wonders if it is. She's denied it again and again, but is it really helping him to drown his continuous cry for help? “Russelin's not Jack,” she says as much to answer him as it is to distract herself. “We're Assassins. She'll learn why soon enough.”

“But what good will it do?” he asks bleakly. “She has Nellie. I know Elise, I've known her since she was a teen. She doesn't make false threats.”

“So we'll find Nellie,” she tells him fiercely. “We'll find her, and once she's safe, we'll kill Russelin. It'll be over then.”

He lowers his head, looking down at the gauntlet on his arm. From this angle, his expression is hidden from her, and despite herself she feels a trickle of uneasiness. With a roll of his arm, the blade snaps out, as smooth and easy as everything else isn't. And is that wrong? she thinks wildly. The Assassin blade is his inheritance as much as it is hers, but maybe she pushed him too fast, pressured him into a choice he wasn't ready to make.

(Or should she stop worrying? Stop treating him like a child, like he so desperately wants? Damned if she does, damned if she doesn't. So what in God's name is she supposed to _do_?)

“We weren't raised like normal children, were we?” he says, running his fingers lightly over the razor-sharp edge, and she frowns warily at yet another whiplash change of subject. “I never thought about that before—well, before. Most children don't learn how to kill, much less encouraged to. I didn't think it was strange to teach Jack, either. Do you think that's wrong?”

She hesitates. There's something buried in the question there, far more than just a simple yes or no. “I don't think it's wrong or right,” she says finally. “It just is. It's what you do with our skills that matters more. We kill to achieve a goal: it's a means, not an end.”

He looks up, and there's a bitter twist to his mouth. “For everyone except the dead,” he says. “You can't get much more of an end than that. And that's just...that's bloody perfect, isn't it?”

Is the last sentence condemning or wistful? She doesn't know, and that's the worst part. Unable to hold back any longer, she reaches out. He tenses at the movement: not quite flinching, but close. She's pulled away before, but this time, she simply stops, freezing her hand in midair. It's with utmost caution that she finally sets her hand down over his, curving her palm carefully around the blade and trapping it between their fingers.

Given enough pressure, the hidden blade is sharp enough to slice through flesh and bone. She knows intimately just how much, and she has since she was a child. So does he, and there are some things that can never be forgotten.

He twitches restlessly under her touch, and she waits with bated breath until he stills. She wets her lips before speaking again, carefully framing the words in her mind before letting them go. “Did you think about death a lot?” she asks quietly. It's a strange feeling to hear the words out loud, like she's crossing some boundary that cannot be uncrossed. She's never asked him about what happened in the asylum before, and she knows so very well why—it's dangerous territory, very much so.

Jacob doesn't answer, turning his face away. She watches him, refusing to relent. They've danced obliquely around this subject long enough, and here, standing with a blade held between them, is an oddly appropriate tableau in which to ask. She waits, letting the silence draw out around them, silently willing it to draw Jacob out from his shell.

It's an age and a half before he moves again. It's a minute movement, just shifting his weight on his bad foot. It's not enough to move the blade through skin, but it's close. “There wasn't anything else to think about,” he says, and the words are quiet enough that she has to strain to hear. “Jack wasn't exactly a generous host.”

“And did you ever wish for death yourself?” she asks, soft-voiced.

Silence. He lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. “There wasn't anything else to think about,” he repeats.

The answer, in some ways, was inevitable. She's known it for a while now, had it shouted it at her just a day before. Hearing it in such a manner, though, only serves to bring it all the more bleakly home. She takes a breath, forcing herself to actually think out the words: _Jacob wants to die_. Because he thinks that he's failed, because of the lives that were lost under his watch. Because it just isn't worth it anymore to keep on fighting, not with Jacks and Olwyns and Elises around every corner seeking to prey on the weak. And when one is gone, another rises in their place, so what's the bloody _point?_

Put it that way, the futility of it all threatens to overwhelm her too. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, anchoring herself against the touch of metal under her fingertips. There's a spiel about the indomitability of the human spirit in there somewhere, probably, but no inspirational speech is going to drive the clouds of depression away. She's tried that before, and it didn't work. She's tried giving him distance, she's tried clinging close, she's tried every method under the sun. But here they are, repeating this same dire chord over and over again, and every time they sink deeper into the pit.

She opens her eyes. Jacob's looking at her, and there's a melancholy acknowledgement in his eyes. “I did tell you,” he says. “This isn't anything that you can fix.”

“Right,” she says tiredly. “And I shouldn't even try, because I shouldn't even be here. I heard you the first time.”

There's a pyrrhic humor that can be found in the deepest depths of despair, she thinks, and Jacob's mouth nudges upwards with it now. “Well. At least I know that you listen when I talk. Sometimes, at least.”

There's nothing funny at all in the situation, but she must smile or else cry. “I always listen,” she says. “Unless you're being an idiot. Then I ignore you with perfect justification.”

“You should,” he says, suddenly subdued. “I've not been making very good decisions, I'm afraid.” He swallows and looks down at their intertwined hands. A moment later, he lets out a long breath, something that bears just the slightest similarity to a sob. “I can't lose anyone else,” he says, and his voice is very quiet. “Evie, I—I don't think I'll survive that.”

She wants to protest. She wants to shake him, to somehow inject into him a new spirit that will rise from the ashes of what Jack has left. But all her best efforts have been for naught, and there's no hiding the truth. She rubs her thumb gently against the side of Jacob's hand, feeling his warm solidity in this touch. He's still here for now, but how much longer?

“All right,” she says, and she can feel the dreaded inevitability tugging at her bones. “So no one else dies, then. Not Nellie, not the Unfortunates. Not Andrew, Edward or Arjun. Not Emmett, and not me.” She tightens her grip on his hand, heedless of the blade. “And not you, Jacob. Promise me.”

He shakes his head. “We could never lie to each other very well,” he says in a low voice. “Are you asking me to start?”

“No,” she says. Her voice wavers, and she clears her throat, fighting to get control. “I'll make you a deal, Jacob. No one else dies, and in turn, neither do you.” With her free hand, she reaches out, brushing his cheek lightly. “We'll get Nellie out, and we _will_ stop Russelin. I promise.”

He looks at her, hazel eyes grave. “That's a hell of a promise,” he says softly.

“Well, I'm asking for a hell of a return,” she says. She's shaking with the enormity of it all, and the stakes of this game are so much higher than she ever thought they would be. There's the blade between them, though, and she must stay as composed as she can. “So you will keep on trying, Jacob. You will _live_ , and in exchange, I will do my damnest to make sure that everyone else does as well.”

Is there a tremor in her traitorous hand? His eyes flick to it just for a moment before focusing back on her. “Oh, Evie,” he says, and he sounds almost gentle. He laughs a little, pressing his cheek into her palm. “You should have left, you know,” he says. “You could be heading home to India even now. You could be away from all this, all of...” he sighs, the breath gusting across her palm. “Of me. Of this mess.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Did you honestly expect me to just pack my bags and leave?” she asks archly, putting on as much a show of bravado as she can. “You're going to have to try harder than that to drive me away.”

A quirk of the mouth in the tiniest of smiles as he accepts the charade. “Still as stubborn as ever,” he says.

“Yes,” she says. The word is heavy in her mouth. “Yes, I am. And I'm not going to let you go. Not if there's anything I can do about that.”

“You might regret that,” he says laconically. It's not a warning. A warning would take effort and urgency. No, _this_ is just a statement of fact, laid bare and uncaring for the world to see.

She breathes out. “I've regretted a lot of things,” she says quietly, inexorably. “And I know that I'll regret this most of all if I don't even try. So. Do we have a bargain, Jacob?”

He tilts his head. The weight of his cheek is still warm against her fingers. Time crawls by, slow as molasses, before he finally nods. “All right.”

Slowly but inevitably, he pulls away. She lets him go, lifting her hand away from his. With a quick snap of his arm, he retracts the blade back into its sheath, and she watches it disappear with a strange sense of loss. “So,” he says.

“So,” she echoes.

He gestures with a hand. “What now?”

What now, indeed. Jacob's watching her, eyes somber and waiting. Don't lose control, she thinks. One thing at a time. “Let's go back to the townhouse and wait for the others,” she decides after a moment. “And after that—I think it's time that Abberline visited us.”

“Freddy?” Jacob asks, and there's a note of mild surprise in his voice. “Poor man. How is he?”

“Terrible,” she says. “But then again, we're all a little worse for the wear.”

“That's putting it mildly,” he notes, and she laughs at the unexpected note of dryness in his voice. It feels good to laugh, his answer settling her in a way that his fake mask never could. The cracking, careless facade of the past week is gone; the crippling despair is shed. Jacob is alert, alive, and more _real_ than she's seen him in a while. But it's a temporary reprieve, she knows, the result of a bargain brokered with the devil out of sheer desperation.

How long will it last? What has she _done_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my GOD they are finally moving emotionally and getting to some form of communication. Damn kids and their inability to express things properly. I mean they've still got a hella way to go, but this is _some_ kind of momentum at least. GAH.
> 
> I've been super busy lately with two midterms around the corner, but hopefully after next week things should be more or less back on track. I'm also going to try to get some of my more game-centric wips into shape, because as fun (ahahah) as _Raven_ is, it can be a bit emotionally draining to write. Sometimes I just want to write about happy things, like twin stabbity bits and shenanigans! /pouts


	15. Chapter 15

“You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“That look on your face. I know that Evie frown. It used to make me shake in my boots with terror.”

“Did it really.”

“Obviously. You've got a very intimidating frown, and time has only made it ever harsher.”

“And your tongue ever sweeter, I see.”

“If that's all that time's done to me, I'd be damn grateful for it. What are you thinking about?”

“A lot of things. It's a complicated situation.”

“...yes. It is.”

“Mostly, I'm just trying to work things out. We could do it the old way, couldn't we? If it came to that. Challenge Russelin to some sort of gang war, fight it out over territory.”

“She'll never do that. Why fight and risk losing power when she has the leverage she needs?”

“We're Assassins, Jacob. If nothing, she can't hide Nellie from us for long. The sight will point her out clear as day unless she's moved Nellie too far away, but I don't think she will have. The farther away her captive is, the easier it is to lose control, and Russelin doesn't strike me as the type. Once Nellie's safe, we can strike to eradicate Russelin from Whitechapel. Kill her if it comes to it, and have Abberline mop up the rest of her bully boys.”

“...”

“It could use some refinement, I admit. You know the lay of the land better than I do, Jacob. What do you think?”

“I think you're making it sound a lot simpler than it seems."

"How so?"

"It's not just Nellie. Russelin's not stupid enough to hinge all her bets on keeping Nellie under her grip. It's all the Unfortunates, Evie. We save one, she'll just take another. Make it bloody to set an example. We can't possibly protect them all.”

“Do you think she would really do it?”

“Do what?”

“Torture innocent people to death. It takes a special sort of evil to do that, I think. Something like Jack.”

“...”

“Jacob?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I didn't think so. I'm not really sure you should trust my judgment. I didn't think that Jack was evil, either...well. Not until it was too late.”

“He was a madman. It's not—”

“Evie. Stop. You don't have to say it. I know that Jack was twisted, and that he made his choice and so did the women and all that. I just—ah. Forget it. Can we go back to Russelin now?”

“...”

“So yes, I think that killing her is a splendid idea. Kill Luther while you're at it, he's an obnoxious prick. But all I'm saying is that it has to be done very, very quickly. If you leave her with even the slightest shred of time and power, she'll strike back where it hurts the most.”

“...”

“Evie? What?”

“...if I could make it better for you, I would. You know that, right? I've been trying and trying and I just...I promised you that no one else would die. I mean it. I truly do.”

“...”

“Is there even anything I can do at this point, Jacob? Or have you made up your mind already? Is this just some last duty that you're carrying out for the sake of it?”

“I'm not thinking of it that way.”

“Then how are you thinking of it?”

“I don't know.”

“That's not an answer.”

“That's the truth. Evie, I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen. I actually _really_ don't know why I'm still here. I just...”

“...”

“...”

“We'll kill Russelin. If nothing else, I promise you that we'll put an end to whatever they're doing.”

“You're very confident.”

“I have to be.”

“Well. At any rate, you may have to go this alone. Don't give me that look. I don't mean that way, not now, at least. But I'm not exactly in tip-top shape, if you haven't noticed.”

“Hmm. Give me your hand. How does it feel when I press down? Does it hurt?”

“No. It feels a little strange, but nothing I can't handle. It's not the first bone I've broken, after all.”

“But your blade shoulder isn't near as limber as it properly should be. How is your ankle? You're still using the cane, which isn't the best sign. ”

“Are you moonlighting for Dr. Schultz now?”

“Jacob. Answer the question.”

“It's...it's fine. It bears my weight.”

“...”

“Most of the time. I'm not quite about to leap across rooftops anytime soon.”

“You should at least start with the stretches. Try to regain some flexibility. We can work on your strength later. We can do some in the morning, actually.”

“You worry like an old woman.”

“I _am_ an old woman. And I intend to keep my equally old brother around for as long as possible.”

“If that was your intent, maybe giving me this overly sharp blade wasn't the best idea. I'm very rusty, you know. Possibly like the springs on this thing.”

“...”

“Joke. It was a joke.”

“That's not funny.”

“I'm sorry.”

“...”

“I'm not completely inept. I promise.”

“Yes, well, so long as you keep your other promise, you can be as spastic as your heart desires.”

“...why _are_ you doing this, Evie?”

“What?”

“You really don't have to be here, you know. I'm sure that Henry and Parvati must miss you. Not to mention whatever projects you've got on hold. You're a popular woman over there, aren't you? There must be something more enjoyable than...this. You could—”

“Stop! Shut up.”

“...”

“That's not going to happen. I swear to God, Jacob, if you try to get me to go back to India one more time, I will stuff a rag in your mouth and sew it shut. I'm not going. I'm not leaving. I'm here, and we are going to deal with this. I am going to be a massive pain in your arse from here on to the end of time. I will descend into the depths of whatever afterlife there is if I have to. Do you understand?”

“...”

“Jacob _._ ”

“Yes, _ma'am_.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“Evie. I'm sorry.”

“No. I mean—don't. Don't apologize. I should be the one apologizing. It's been a long day, that's all.”

“Right. Well. I can't argue that.”

“Yes. When did Arjun say the others would be back?”

“Depending on how long Evanston decides to whinge about the terms, anywhere from an hour to two for Edward. Andrew...I don't know. It will take a while to contact everyone. Also, he's angry at me, I think.”

“He's not angry. He's just skeptical.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“He's got questions, that's all. That's to be expected.”

“...”

“Jacob. What's wrong?”

“...you should do it. You _are_ doing it, actually.”

“Do what?”

“Take the London Brotherhood. I did it for God knows how long, and if nothing I've just cocked up the situation even more.”

“That's not true.”

“Can you honestly say that it's improved from since we first arrived? Look around you, Evie. Look at Whitechapel now, at the fear the Unfortunates must bear. Is this _really_ so much better?”

“Jacob, now you're just feeling sorry for yourself. Look. You made a mistake. You made a _massive_ mistake, fine. But that doesn't mean the situation is completely lost.”

“...”

“Stop making yourself into a martyr. The Rooks are mine to blame in equal share. I fought in gang wars, same as you did. I thought they were a good idea at the time, too.”

“Oh, Evie, no you didn't. I could never forget the nagging. You were all, 'Jacob, don't start a gang! It's immature and silly!' Whine, whine, moan, moan, or so I thought at the time. Well, maybe I should've listened.”

“Don't revise history. I disagreed because I thought that because 'Rooks' is such a stupid name for a gang. I was sold on the actual idea very quickly.”

“...”

“I'm not some infallible paragon, Jacob. You shouldn't think of me that way. Frankly, it's rather exhausting.”

“...”

“And Andrew will come around. He just needs time. We all need some time to gather our thoughts. We're not totally bereft—there's Abberline and the good men of Scotland Yard. There are still a good number of Rooks on our side. And there's Weaversbrook. I refuse to believe that a well-crafted letter alluding to Russelin's intentions won't harm her reputation enough for her to rethink her course of action. The city itself is on our side in this, Jacob. Try to be optimistic.”

“It's been a long time, Evie, and I think I've generally found pessimism to be more reliable. You know, you're putting a lot of value on the goodness of humanity. You don't find that a little risky?”

“I don't, actually. I don't think it's a risk at all.”

“...even after Jack? You saw what he did. You saw what he—you _know_ what he did. Don't you? And yet you still...”

“Is that truly so hard to believe, Jacob?”

“...”

“I did see what Jack did. What the gaoler on the prison ship did. But those people are few and far in between, Jacob, and they're dead now. Russelin, Luther, all the petty bullies of the world—that's the way their stories will end, too. The world isn't inherently evil.”

“...”

“What's so funny?”

“I...ah. I remember thinking something. Right after Elise left, I remember thinking how...how _unfair_ it all was. That wasn't there supposed to be some light in the darkness, some divine force to keep things in check. And there was. There is. There—ah, Evie. And here you are, promising to balance the scales. There's some irony to be found in that, I'm sure.”

“... _please_ don't compare me to a god. I am not a god.”

“No. Of course you're not. You're too pedantic to be a god. I just found the thought funny, that's all.”

“You've certainly developed a strange sense of humor.”

“I've had to. Welcome necessity, mother of invention.”

“Laugh, if only to not cry?”

“Is that a quote? That sounds like a quote.”

“If it is one, I've no one to attribute it to. I'm not here to lecture you about Plato for once.”

“Ha! You know, I never thought I would miss that.”

“Oh, do you really miss it? I'm sure that I can dredge up a few quotes if I really try.”

“No, please don't. My heart can't take it. It's too dull. I live on the edge of excitement these days, what with London crumbling about my ears. Plato would put me to dreary sleep.”

“Well, how can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping? Are all our thoughts a dream? Or are we awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?”

“That makes no... _oh_. Evie, you sneaky bastard.”

“I do try.”

“Mmm. I'll never forgive you.”

“So long as you don't leave, Jacob, I think I'll survive.”

“...”

“...”

“I've missed you, Evie.”

“And I've missed you. I've missed this. Just the two of us being able to talk like this. That's something. This is good, isn't it? We're not fighting, we're communicating, we're even laughing. That's good. Isn't this a good sign?”

“...”

“Jacob?”

“I—I can't answer that. I don't know if it works like that. I'm sorry.”

“...”

“I'll see this affair through. I'm not enough of a bastard to leave you alone with this mess that I've made. But I'm just so _tired._ I, ah...most nights, I can't even properly sleep. He's there, all the time, and I can't forget. And I don't deserve to forget, not when I made him who he is. And then Elizabeth is crying, Mary Ann is screaming. I hear them every night. I don't think it'll ever stop."

“...”

“And I know what you're going to say. It's not my fault that they died. Well, it is, Evie, and all the platitudes in the world won't take that away. I trained Jack. I taught him how to kill. I put Annie and Mary Ann into harm's way. When that failed, I asked Lizzie and Katey to act as bait, and then I still couldn't capitalize on that. So yes, it is my fault. And now...”

“So because you didn't save them, you think you deserve to die?”

“...”

“You think that they would _want_ you to die? Because you were captured and thrown into a cell and tortured for weeks on end, you deserve to follow them into the abyss? That's the fate they would want from you?”

“...”

“I think they were good women. I think they were smart, accomplished, rational women. I don't think they would hold a grudge against you when you tried the best that you could and were punished so very badly for it. I know I would never.”

“...”

“...”

“Evie, I don't...can we not fight? Please. Let's not fight, not now.”

“...”

“Never mind. I'll go. I would storm out theatrically, but I'm a little incapacitated. Can you hand me my cane? It's to your left—”

“No. Jacob. Stop. I'm not angry, I'm...”

“...”

“...I don't know. I don't know what I am.”

“Well. That makes two of us, at least.”

“Ha. I suppose it does.”

“Should I commence with the storming out?”

“No. You'll just fall over anyway and it'll be more silly than dramatic.”

“...all right.”

“Are you hungry? I can make us some soup, I think. It's about suppertime.”

“I did learn how to cook while you were away, you know.”

“I know you did. _I'm_ hungry, though, and I want to make soup. If you'll deign to eat some of it, your Majesty, you're welcome to.”

“Well. We suppose that we could choke down some soup, if the peasantry will cook it for us.”

“Good. Actually, I'd best prepare supper for us all, especially if the others are coming back. It will do us all some good to have a meal inside before we start to business. Move over a little so I can get up.”

“...Evie.”

“Yes?”

“I'm glad you're here. I haven't said that yet, have I? Thank you for coming.”

“As if I would do anything else, Jacob.”

“...”

“...Come help me in the kitchen? I'll even let you have a chair to rest your weary bones on for when the excitement gets to be too much.”

“Of course. Give me a minute, I'll be right there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Midterms are over and there's just a massive pile of research left to tackle, but mehhh I can deal with that later. MOAR FIC! I tried to write this half a dozen ways, but in the end, the only way that I could really get going is this stripped-down, dialogue-only version. My bread and butter as a writer is basically People Talking About Feelings, so it's good to get back to the roots here and let these two breathe for a bit.
> 
> We will be back to our regularly scheduled writing-with-exposition and zany funtastic ensemble crew next week. Whoo!


End file.
